


Baker Cab Company

by whitehart



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Mrs Hudson, Canon Divergence - The Blind Banker, Eventual Smut, Jealous John Watson, John Swears A Lot, John Watson Takes Care of Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mystrade Ahoy!, POV Alternating, POV First Person, PTSD John, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is actually terrified of Mrs H, mrs hudson is a saint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-06-09 06:45:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 34,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15261708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitehart/pseuds/whitehart
Summary: Ever wondered how Sherlock's black cab appears magically? Bryn Driscoll of Baker Cab Company tells his story.A/N: I've always wondered that. In my mind, Mycroft provides it and Sherlock is oblivious. I was inspired by someone's post about how sad it is to be Sherlock & John's cabbie in fanfics, because they always throw money at him. This fic is written in the cabbie's POV. This is a WIP, relationships and characters will be added as I post because #nospoilers.My goal is to post once a week, Saturday evening (I'm at +8 GMT). Also, the end game is always JohnLock/Mystrade, so you can look forward to that!





	1. My name is Bryn Driscoll, or Aaron.

Being in the employment of Mycroft Holmes had always been stressful. However, the  _ minor government official _ , as he had constantly emphasised, always took care of his staff, including me.

My name is Bryn Driscoll. Or I am more commonly known as Aaron. I am of Welsh descent, and a retired MI6 agent. Aaron was my given name in the agency, and I have decided to keep it when I retired. Currently I am the only employee of the taxicab company called ‘Baker Cab’. We have a fleet of one Hackney carriage, and I am the only driver.

My employer remains the same.

 

I was shot six times during an operation in god-knows-where. Seriously, I had no idea where I was. I remember dangling off the side of a helicopter with someone pulling me up while I was getting shot at. Took me eight months to regain full mobility. During that time, I was replaced and given a severance package. I had no family, no wife or children. Everyone I cared for lives far away from civilisation, in a small village, far in the Wales forests. I thought about going home. With the money I had gotten from my retirement, I can live comfortably for the rest of my life without lifting another finger.

But apparently, my time was not up. The day I got the all clear from my physiotherapist, someone visited me at the hospital lounge. Someone I had only met once, when I was employed. This person probably saved my arse more times than I can count, and he was offering me a job.

 

“Good afternoon, Driscoll.”

I lifted my head up from staring at my lunch and saw my ex and future boss - Mycroft Holmes.

“You are not having that for lunch. Follow me.”

I knew better than not to. Besides, that meatloaf from the hospital cafeteria was nasty. I only bought it to eye the pretty nurse sitting in the next table.

“Yes sir.” I answered softly and followed Mister Holmes.

We walked out of the hospital and there was a car waiting. I used to drive one of those. Out of habit I headed towards the driver’s door but stopped short when an umbrella was lifted horizontally against my torso.

“You are no longer an employee, Driscoll. Get in the back from the other side.”

 

I’ve always followed instructions well. As the car pulled away, I was silently hoping that he would offer me a job. Going back to my village would be boring, and my mother would try to marry me to the first single girl she meets from the neighbouring village.

“Driscoll. I would like to offer you a job.”  _ Thank heavens! _ “Your pay and benefits would be exactly the same as when you were an operative, however, the risk of this job is significantly less.”

I’ve worked with these people long enough to know that was all he was going to say. I would have to decide before I get a more detailed brief.

“Yes, I accept.” I was not hesitant at all. At least I’ll get to stay in London… wait, he didn’t mentioned that, did he?

“It is in London, unless your target decides to leave for a couple of days. You are now employed by Baker Cab, and your only passenger is,” he handed a file over to me, “this person.”

I opened the file to find his name - Sherlock Holmes. Ah, must be Mister Holmes’ younger brother. There were some additional information of his associates:   
Gregory Lestrade - a Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard   
Angelo De Luca - the owner of a restaurant in Northumberland Street   
Molly Hooper - a specialist registrar at St. Bartholomew's Hospital   
Martha Louise Hudson - landlady of 221 Baker Street   
Lucy Spark - homeless, spotted in various parts of Thames

And the list went on until the end of the page, all homeless in various parts of London.

There were also some medical reports. As I flipped through, it was obvious the younger Holmes was using cocaine. Well, that explains why Mister Holmes needed a minder for his younger brother.

“You have one task, and one task only. There is only one life you protect. Understood?” He sounded stern, but underneath it I could hear his voice shake. He’s worried.

“Yes sir. Understood.”

“Good. We are here. This is now your new home. You will find everything you need in there. The number on the back is for you to call whenever there are special circumstances. Good evening, Aaron.”

He called me Aaron, which meant I was back in the field. “Good evening, sir. Take care.” I got out of the car and heard the engines of it going further, until it turned the corner and joined the main street’s traffic.


	2. The First Passenger

In my new flat, there was a table full of my favourite dishes. Glamorgan sausages, Welsh cakes, even a pot of cawl with lamb, potatoes, leeks, carrots and swedes, just like how my mother used to make them. I opened the fridge to find it stocked full of prepped meals, a lot of beer, and a few bars of chocolate that I let myself indulge in once in a blue moon.

While nibbling on a Welsh cake, I went through the file thoroughly again, occasionally sweeping caster sugar and crumbs off the paper. These things I have discovered about Sherlock could be detrimental to Mister Holmes’ safety.

At the back, I found a business card without a name, only a number. I’ve recognised it from my days with intelligence. Q-branch made those. These cards are microchipped. If found in the wrong location, it would self-combust. I quickly memorised the number and threw it into the fireplace.

Sherlock Holmes is a unique fellow. A genius, but self-destructing. Like many of my fellow agents, they too had issues with alcohol and drugs, to the point of no return… His last three blood tests were clean. That’s nine months. Good for him.

His business with Scotland Yard elevated security measures from two to six in the matter of two weeks! How dangerous are street criminals in London these days? I read a few news articles about some of the cases he had solved. Well, if he is hunting serial killers or influential people trying to cover up their own crimes, the security is justifiable, I suppose.

Apparently he was high in America when he solved one of DEA’s biggest case. Some big time drug dealer… ah, Hudson. His landlady’s husband. That explains how he lives almost rent-free in the middle of London without an income. But again, if your brother runs-- IS the British Government, you wouldn’t need to worry about money.

There was a note embedded on the file with instructions to destroy all of this when I was done. It was written in an elegant script.

It read, “Driscoll, I had no doubt you would accept this task. You were one of my best operatives. Rules to follow on this task are listed below. Call the number when you encounter special circumstances. You are anonymous.” _Which meant I am not to be made known._ “Only the person in file is your concern.” _Which meant I am expected to drop anyone else in the way._ “You will receive specific technical instructions from your next call.” _Someone is going to call me when I burn this file._

I’m surprised he had to reiterate those rules. Those were the second, third and fourth commandment in the operative’s bible. The first commandment is ‘staying alive’. Contrary to popular belief, MI6 doesn’t drop operatives like flies. We are more useful in their control than to be on the other side (enemy, or dead).

 

I picked up the last of the Welsh cake and shoved it into my mouth while I read the most recent reports on the younger Holmes’ surveillance. I was surprised at how evasive he was, given that he had no training. Did he pick this up on his own? He would have been Q’s favourite.

How did Mister Holmes suppose I follow his brother around? As I studied the last of his ‘free running’ patterns, I noticed he often disappears in back alleys near the fire escapes. Rooftops. Scaling from roof to roof as if he was Batman? That makes Mister Holmes… Alfred! And I’m the Batmobile.

He has gotten into a lot of trouble with the A&E too. Refusing treatment is at the top of the list. Why am I not surprised anymore...

The day went by quickly and it was close to nine in the evening when I was done with that file. It wasn’t the thickest file I’ve ever had to study, but the idea of failing Mister Holmes made me study it with some extra motivation. Motivation to stay alive.

Gulping down the last of my cowl, I took at last look at Sherlock’s picture before I flung the whole file into blazing fire.

I sat in place, not moving a muscle, waiting for the call to come. Took them little over a minute.

“Aaron.” I answered.

“Good day. From now on please answer the phone by stating your company name.” The voice on the other end said sternly. A woman, and she sounded sweet.

“Shall we try again?” I offered and she hung up.

A few seconds later, my mobile rang again.

“Baker Cab.” I could almost hear her nodding in assent.

“I need a pickup from the intersection of Marylebone Road and Balcombe Street.”

It was just around the corner. I’m on Glentworth, one street from Baker.

“Will be there in five.” I responded.

“Make it three.” She said and hung up.

 


	3. Instruction Manual

Well, I guess my work had been cut out for me, because one hundred and forty seven seconds later, I found myself at the corner of Marylebone and Balcombe with a gorgeous brunette in my cab. She had her face buried in her Blackberry, but still managed to get in the back without flinching.

“I believe you’re familiar with your task?” She asked, and I nodded. She must have seen it through her peripheral vision with her nose stuck on the screen of her mobile. “Good. Now the technical part. We have motion sensors and pressure pads on the stairs of 221. As the system picks up a pattern of Sherlock moving down, it will trigger a silent alarm on your wrist watch.” She dropped a regular looking watch in the front passenger seat. “It will beep and light up. Push the button underneath your steering wheel to switch if off. After that, bring the cab to 221 Baker Street and pick him up.”

“What if there’s another cab and he hops on that?”

“On paper, Mister Holmes and I work for the Ministry of Transport.”

That was self-explanatory. If they work for the Ministry of Transport, it’s just a lift of his finger to stop cabs from passing through Baker Street.

“Got it. Anything else I need to know?”

“He cannot recognise you. Put in some effort in changing your appearance once in awhile. He will need to pay, because you are actually working for a cab company. You can keep the money he throws at you.”

“Throws?”

“Another reason no cabbies come through Baker Street anymore.” She chuckled. I looked up into the rear view mirror and saw her reflection. There were some fine lines that formed around the edges of her eyes when she smiles.  _ Gorgeous _ , I thought to myself.

“Right. So I’m his private cabbie plus minder, and he’s not supposed to know.”

“Yes, and protect him, at all cost. He gets into situations more often than we can follow. Use your better judgement. Mister Holmes believes in you enough to let you mind his brother. When you’ve dropped him at his location, keep an eye on him. He tends to leave on foot via rooftops or back alleys. Familiarise yourself with every nook and cranny in London, because he is.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“You’ve memorised one hundred and twenty three thousand square kilometers of Woomera. I’m sure London isn’t quite the challenge.”

And she’s right. I remember now of my last mission. Woomera Prohibited Area of the Australian Outback, the largest weapons testing land zone in the world. I’ve always had a knack for maps and directions. Perhaps that was why Mister Holmes kept me in his employment specifically to be his brother’s minder.

“You’re right. But I’ll need the latest satellite imagery. God knows how much London has changed, and the last thing I need is to run into a dead end.”

“He’s fast, mind you. You may have experience, but his navigational skills are on par to yours.”

“Was that a compliment, miss…” I was trying to coax her into revealing her name, but she did not bite.

“Yes, a compliment for both you and Sherlock Holmes. There’s also two things you should be mindful of. Sherlock has an arrangement with a group of homeless people. He has paid them to not sell him drugs. If an altercation happens between him and someone in file, observe until it escalates to level four. Second, most officers at the Yard that he works with wants to strangle him…”

“Sharp tongue, that one.” I commented, and she was not happy that I interrupted her. I felt her glare through the back of my skull and promptly apologised.

“Right, they want to strangle him, and he doesn’t care about what they think. I expect one of them to lose it soon. In that situation, let DI Lestrade handle it.”

“Yes ma’am.”

I felt her glaring again. “If you call me ma’am again, you won’t find your tongue in your mouth before the end of your following sentence.”

We were going in random directions around London, and towards the end of the conversation, she leaned forward and instructed me to take a right and stop.

“That’d be ten pounds miss.” I said with the heaviest hometown accent I could.

“Meet me in Q-branch on Sunday at nine am. Good day.” She said from outside the cab, sticking her head back in through the window, then promptly threw a few notes on the front passenger seat.

Bloody hell. Is that going to be the highlight of my days from now on? Looking forward to people throwing money at me? Perhaps, one day, when someone politely hands the money to me, it would be an occasion to celebrate!


	4. Nice to finally know you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a long chapter for you guys this week because there's nothing coming next week. Away on a long business trip to the middle of nowhere!

I arrived at the not-so-secret entrance of Q-branch on Sunday at eight in the morning. The front was a cafe, and they do a mean English Breakfast. 

Nothing much happened with Holmes junior in the past few days. Surveillance reported that he was in his flat all along. No visitors except for Miss Hooper who dropped by with a cooler box and left without one. When I woke up this morning, all I could think of was the amount of time Sherlock spends locked up in his flat or the morgue. I suppose when you’re a genius like him, you’d be engrossed with your own brain too.

Just while I was scooping up the last of my baked beans with a toast, someone sat across me at my table.

“Holy fuck on a stick! You’re alive!” The man who sat across me was my partner in my last mission, Benjamin, or Ben. His real name? I have no fucking clue, but we all called him Ben, just like how I’m Aaron.

“Yeah, alive and kicking. You look good too. Are you here for the Queen’s Breakfast?” I asked while standing up and pulling Ben into a hug.

“Damn it Aaron. The last time I saw you, Charles and I were pulling you up into the ‘copter with six bullets inside you. Didn’t hear about you after.” He explained as he sat down. “Queen’s Breakfast, yeah.”

Queen’s Breakfast is the item on the menu that’s not really available. It was the code for us to access Q-branch.

“Mine’s at nine.” I said to Ben.

“Yeah, me too. Shall we?” He asked, pointing to the clock on the wall that said 8:55am.

As we motioned for the waitress, she came over and I ordered the Queen’s Breakfast.

“Queen’s Breakfast to go, please. And the check.”

“Would you like coffee or tea with your Queen’s Breakfast?”

“Cranberry juice with a dash of lemon, thank you.”

“Very well.” And she slipped us the check folder together with a pass card.

The door to Q-branch is cleverly hidden behind the staff room, camouflaged as a stack of napkin boxes. As the door opened, we had to insert the pass card and scan our iris for access.

It has been a long time since I had last been here, and I’ve forgotten that the whole security process takes twelve minutes. And the lady I met earlier in the week was obviously annoyed that Ben and I were late. Q stood behind her like a lost puppy, nervously fiddling with the sleeves on his sweater. He’s a loud and proud gay man in his forties and he was afraid of this young lady in her early thirties.

_ We were both fucked, big time.  _

“About time you two showed up.” She commented when we got close enough.

“Sorry, forgotten how long it takes to go through security.” Ben quipped lightly as she and Q led us towards the back. We passed through a few operators that we used to work with and found ourselves in a small room.

“Have a sit lads.” Q said, pulling two stools out from under the table in the middle.

“We just need to go through some paperwork with you, and make sure you both are equipped to get back on the field.” She said.

“Wait, hang on. Who are you?” Ben asked her. 

“Anthea.” She said without skipping a beat. Definitely not her real name. “I’m Mister Holmes’ assistant, and everyone in Q-branch reports directly to me. Any other questions?” We both shook our heads and she continued, “fill in these forms,” she handed over pieces of papers, “and head down to physical, then the range. I will see you both downstairs. You have…” She looked at the clock above us on the wall, “ten minutes.”

This was like our first day all over again, except Mister Holmes was the one handing over paperwork to us and giving us instructions. Which meant Anthea is next in line to Mister Holmes’ position. I glanced over to Ben, and it seemed like he had the same revelation. I raised an eyebrow towards Anthea and Ben grinned. 

The moment the door closed behind her, we both huffed out loud.

“Damn. She’s the next boss huh? Never thought the day would come when a woman takes over the world.” Ben said without stopping his hand from writing.

“Only if Holmes ever retires… Might be another century but we better get on her good side then.”

“Won’t be surprised if he’s a vampire and have lived for centuries.” We both laughed at that. As we got to the end of the forms, Ben looked at me with a sly grin. “The best side though, is underneath her.” He winked, but blood drained from his face seconds later when the speakers in the room crackled and her voice came through.

“I can hear you bitches chattering. Might I suggest a better use of your time and get your arses down to physical?”

I could only chuckle and shrug my shoulder at the horrified look on Ben’s face for getting caught.

 

Passing our physical and test at the range was easy. It was as if I’ve never left the service. Months ago while I was still shaking like a leaf during my physiotherapy sessions, I often wonder if I will ever make it back. Things were bleak, and I have never felt more alive than I did on the range.

Once we were done, Anthea signed some papers and handed it to Q. “Come on lads. Let’s get you back on the field.” He said.

We went to Q’s sanctuary, as he called it, and got outfitted for our tasks. I received a briefcase full of everyday-looking gadgets with hidden functions. One of Q’s technicians went through all its functions, and it seemed like they created all of it specifically for me to handle Sherlock Holmes.

“It’s nanotech. It sticks to his coat and pings a signal to our sats. He never goes anywhere without his coat. You can track him on your watch, or through one of the operators.” The tech said as she showed me a box of… dust? She saw the confused look on my face and demonstrated its use. “It comes with an adhesive, only activated when used together, and it lasts for twelve hours. Apply it to the back of the cab, on the seats only. Don’t want him to step on some and leave literal GPS footprints all over the city.”

Then she brought up a smaller bag with filled syringes that looked like epipens. “Nutrition jabs. His majesty doesn’t eat much. Some days he just collapses in the middle of a chase, or rolls down the stairs in Baker Street from weak limbs. Get this in him and call an ambulance.”

We spent the next hour going through every piece of equipment. By the end of it, I knew that Sherlock Holmes was going to be a handful.

I was about to leave the front door of the cafe with Ben when a cough made us turn our heads. Anthea was sitting in the booth we were in earlier, with a pint and some chips.

“Join me.” She said.

We both sat down with our briefcases on the floor under the table. It was just slightly after noon, and I thought I might as well have lunch here.

“Ben, Aaron.” She said while leaning back on the booth, “you two were our best before Woomera, and still are the best after that ordeal. I’d like to congratulate you both for acing your tests earlier. If you haven’t already figured out, you are both assigned to the same task, but on opposite ends.”

Ben drew the short straw. He was going undercover on the enemy’s side. In that moment, I had a feeling that would be the last time I would see Ben for a long time, or ever again. Our eyes locked as we walked out of the cafe from the back, and I could see that he had the same epiphany as I did earlier.

“I’ll send you home, Ben.”

“Yeah, that’d be great. It’s Samuel, by the way.”

“Bryn. Nice to finally know you.”


	5. Finally, a case!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are finally headed into Sherlock BBC! I wrote this while re-watching Sherlock on Netflix. Think of it this way - all those scenes you see Anthea texting, she's just gossiping with Bryn and Q!
> 
> Posting this a day earlier because I'm headed into the deep jungle early in the morning. Wish me luck! xx

I’ve been driving Sherlock around for almost a year now. He had a relapse a week since I’ve started, and he was forced to go into rehabilitation. The first two months of working with Baker Cab Company was boring. Sherlock was secure in the centre, and I had two months to catch up with friends and family.

The day Sherlock was out, he bunked with a ‘friend’ of his, if you call your cocaine dealer your friend. In the meantime, another team was busy planting eyes and ears back in Baker Street. One week later he moved back on his own and brought someone back while he was high. The junkie stayed, but as soon as Sherlock came back with a fresh decapitated head, he threw up all over the front door and bailed.

Ever since then, a few potential legit flatmates had came and went within days. Not surprised since he’s an odd fellow, really. Kept mumbling to himself at the back of the cab, going around town carrying a skull and an ice box. One day he left the ice box behind as I dropped him off at Baker Street, and  _ oh _ , how I regretted opening that bloody box. Toes, fresh ones too. Reminded me too much of those I pried off spies in Berlin. I’ve had a few new people added onto my watch list during those months. One of them was Mike Stamford, a teacher in St. Bartholomew’s hospital.

In those months, he owed me close to five hundred pounds in cab fare. Instead of throwing cash at me, he threw all sorts of paper - a bundle of notes he wrote about a past case, paper from the nicotine patches… once he even threw the box and paper wrapper of cookies he just ate!

 

One day, there was a man with a cane waiting for Sherlock in front of Baker Street. I have yet to receive any intel, but from what I’ve learned in observing people over the years, this man had signs of post traumatic stress disorder. He seemed like he was about to swallow a bullet too. He’s paranoid, but puts up a tough front.

I was once there, before Mister Holmes gave me this job. I know how it’s like, to be discharged, to be lost in civilian life, wondering what would happen next, wondering if anything would ever happen again.

Nothing was happening to me, nothing was going to happen to me if not for this.

I’ve sent Anthea a photograph of this man. She should be able to identify him in minutes. I wonder what was taking her so long… then my phone beeped.

**M taking him for a ride, soon. -A**

Right, so Mister Holmes is taking an interest in this man. I shouldn’t be surprised, since Sherlock seemed to be fascinated by this unknown man.

 

Just when I switched on 221B’s surveillance, a loud “Brilliant! Yes!” almost pierced my eardrums. I really should ask Q how to adjust the volume on this earpiece.

“Ah! Four serial suicides, and now a note. Oh, it’s Christmas.”

I snorted. Only Sherlock Holmes would celebrate suicides and murders. He said goodbye to Mrs Hudson and John. So that man’s name is John. I’ll have to…  _ Oh _ , he just yelled at Mrs Hudson. Well, I’ll have to go pick up Sherlock now. The lights on my watch are blinking.

I was surprised when John came with Sherlock.

“Lauriston Gardens.” Sherlock said. That was where the most recent suicide is at. We have been keeping an eye on those serial suicides. Something about the pill they took smelled fishy.

On our way there, Sherlock explains what he does to John, then followed by his obnoxious ‘deductions’. Mister Holmes and Anthea does that as well. However, Mister Holmes is no doubt the best. He never misses a thing. Sherlock thought John’s sister was a brother. Mister Holmes wouldn’t have gotten that wrong. He would’ve said something along the lines of “A wife wouldn’t have engraved a man’s phone. Harry is short for a lady’s name.”

“That. Was amazing.” John said.

I almost hit the brakes and went behind to grab John by his lapel and ask if he was serious. Sherlock had led an isolated life. He had deflected more insults than I would have ever been able to handle. A tough man, but some days I could see that it hurts him. He probably never realised how expressive his eyes were. Yet again, this John fellow, if he thought Sherlock was brilliant, there may be brighter and happier days ahead for Holmes junior.

When we arrived, they strode down the street as I drove away. I kept him in sight of my rear view mirror until his little squabble with Sergeant Donovan and Anderson was over, and headed into the building.

I had to wait nearby. Sam was in the building. He was assigned to be one of the uniforms on DI Lestrade’s team. That made planting bugs easy, but eyes was almost impossible. I couldn’t see what Sherlock was doing, but from their conversations I could tell he was doing his  _ thing _ .

“Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

So his name is John Watson. Since I had a few minutes, I thought I would look up who this man was. As I scrolled through his file, it seemed like he had a lot of issues, with the latest being ‘trust issues’. Sherlock had gotten everything else spot on.

“It’s brilliant.” John said while Sherlock went on deducing what happened.

 

I can see why Mister Holmes wanted to meet this man in person. It will not be pleasant…


	6. First Chase!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early update again! Extremely busy this weekend...
> 
> This chapter closes the first BBC Sherlock episode from Bryn's POV. Enjoy the long chapter and the weekend ahead! xx

“Pink!” Sherlock shouted as he ran out of the building.

Damn, I knew this was going to happen one day, but I was not prepared for it tonight. As I turned the corner on the street where I dropped them off, I saw Sherlock running into an alley. This would be my first chase with him. I had to recall this section of the city and plan the shortest route towards his direction in two seconds flat. I knew he was out to find the suitcase, a pink suitcase. How can the whole lot of them not realise he was looking for a pink suitcase, most likely in a dumpster nearby?

My brain took a split second to answer that for me -  _ that is why you’re B for Bryn, right behind A for Anthea...  _ I shook my head out of it and took an extra second to find the shortest route.

It took me three minutes to find Sherlock, but he went from one building to another, going straight to the roof every single time. He had obviously learned from the best - his own brother. It was a basic knowledge to scout from higher ground, cover more ground in the shortest amount of time. As I ran down one of the fire escapes in the building across him, I saw Sherlock hopping into a dumpster and pulled out a pink suitcase. Bloody hell, my cab and I are going to smell for days now. I took off back to the cab while he celebrates finding the suitcase, jumping in puddles of rotten beans and baby diapers, pumping his fists in the air.  _ Ugh! _

There was no doubt that he would be rejected by other cabs with the state he was in. I wasn’t worried in the slightest he would be picked up by someone else. I pulled up next to _Smelly Sherlock_ and took him straight back to Baker Street.

The moment he was out of my sight, I pulled out my phone and texted Anthea.

**S smells. Cab smells. I am dying, please. -B**

**Delivering package to M. Replacement cab in 20. Leave key in ignition. -A**

Thank god for Anthea! She’s a miracle. It seemed like she was delivering John Watson to Mister Holmes. Our boss worries about Sherlock way too much. More than any brother would. But if I had a brother, and my brother was Sherlock Holmes, and I was ~~the ruler of the free world~~ a minor government official, I would be like Mister Holmes too.

Getting back to my flat was literally a breath of relief. I took a quick scrub down and switched on the surveillance. Sherlock was digging through the suitcase now, and sending a few text, and slapped one, two, then a third nicotine patch before throwing himself horizontally on the sofa. Looked like he will be staying in tonight.

**Dropping package to 221. Soldiers and their illegal weapons. Tsk. -A**

**We all have that habit of nicking things. You included, A. -B**

**Enough chit-chat ladies. We have enough weapons to go around. -Q**

**Guess someone had to monitor the keepers. -B**

Of course Q was monitoring our comms. He monitor’s everybody’s communications. That’s why he’s been the quartermaster for almost thirty years now. Started early, that man. I heard he was recruited after patching the MI6 channels as a kid, leaving notes in his patches to the previous Q to hire him, because his parents were going through a divorce and he wanted out of that damned house, and they hated him for being gay...

 

...I heard Sherlock just described my boss as the most dangerous man John would have ever met. He’s right. Mycroft Holmes is the most dangerous man anyone could ever meet.

A few minutes of conversation later, they’re leaving. Sherlock mentioned Northumberland Street earlier when he asked John to send a text to the serial killer. It was just a five minutes walk away, so he would probably not try to flag down a cab. I ran out and saw them crossing the street and followed closely behind. They walked into Angelo’s.

Angelo makes really amazing pasta. Six months ago I was going to pretend to eat while I plant bugs in his restaurant, but  _ god almighty _ ... his pasta actually made me miss three spots. Sam had to cover for me by breaking in after they closed that night.

Angelo made a passing comment that John was Sherlock’s date. I had to agree. They do look good together. But of course, Sherlock had to reject the man’s advances completely. Like my boss, they are idiots when it comes to matters of the heart.

 

I just lit a fag when they started running. They were following that cab. Shortest was through Lexington, Berwick, then intercept them at D’Arblay. That’s what Sherlock would’ve thought. Hopkins has a MI6 safe house, but he wouldn’t know that. If I pick it up a little I can get there before Sherlock and John does.

And I did. I stood across the street when they almost caught up with the cab. They would now have to go through the intersection at Noel Street before cutting the cab off on Wardour right after Noel and Hollen.  Again, of course I got there before they did. John Watson obviously slowed Sherlock down a little, but I was surprised he did not just abandon his new friend and went ahead on his own. After checking the cab, they walked away. It wasn't the wrong cab, but the passenger... ah, the passenger could not have been the serial killer.

Moments later they were running away from a policeman when my watch started blinking red, and rapidly. There were a lot of people going up and down 221B, and the duo was obviously headed back towards that same direction too. I had to sprint back through a parallel route and monitor the situation. I knew something bad was happening, something bad was going to happen.

It took me longer than I’d like to get back to my flat, and there was a new cab in front waiting for me. I quickly looked at the surveillance and saw the whole Met in that flat, and Sherlock no longer in the flat. He was outside 221 talking to the cabbie.  _ Shit fucking sticks on a waffle! _ The cabbie from earlier! How could neither of us not realise that?

I ran out and got into my new cab and drove towards 221B. My gut told me things were about to get very very wrong because I saw that same cab at the door of 221, and Sherlock Holmes had just hopped on. Knowing that the surveillance team was monitoring us, I followed. The other cab stopped in between two buildings. I had my headlights turned off when they turned the corner into this street and parked far enough in the dark so they wouldn’t notice me, and it seemed like they did not.

They were walking into the college. From where I was I could tell he had a gun. I had no idea which building or which floor they went to. At that moment it was a fifty-fifty chance. I saw the distance between the two and knew that I would not have a second chance if I got the wrong one.

“Left or right?” I asked the moment she picked up the call.

“Left. Do not let him take that pill. Cleanup will be there in ten.”

I hung up the phone and headed towards the left building.

 

It took me a good seven minutes to sweep every floor, until I came across a lit  corridor from a room, and I could hear someone talking from the hallway.

“...or I can shoot you in the head. Funnily enough, no-one’s ever gone for that option.” The other man said.

“I’ll have the gun, please.” Sherlock said. I had mine in my hand, ready to take over any second. I only stayed behind because Sherlock must know something to take that big a risk.

They continued to talk. And the moment I heard Sherlock call him out for having a fake gun, I latched the safety back on and stayed hidden. There were round windows on the twin doors and I peeked in to keep an eye on Sherlock. I had decided that I would wait until he had the pill touch his lips before barging in.

He had the pill really close to his mouth when a shot rang out, followed by a loud thud of the other man falling on the floor. Blood started to pool around his body. At that rate, he would be dead in under two minutes. Whoever shot the man must have been acclimated to violence. With the distance between the buildings and that accuracy, it was no ordinary shooter. By the sound of it, it was a handgun. It wasn’t loud enough to be a sniper rifle. A silencer would have been the choice of a premeditated kill. From experience, I knew whoever shot the man did not set out to kill him. The shooter only did it to save Sherlock, like I would have.

The last thing I heard was the cabbie shouting a name. The name that got me shot in Woomera, the name we have been hunting with Mister Holmes for almost half a decade - Moriarty.

Sherlock was running towards the door. I hid behind a dark corner, hoping I did it in time. He looked straight into my eyes and for a moment I was sure he saw me. I saw him frowning for a moment and then turned around to continue running out of the building. By instinct I knew he was going to the other building to find the shooter. I was curious, but knew better than to follow Sherlock. The flashing blue lights outside told me that the police had arrived. It was time for me to leave.

**Leave from the back. We are here. M will sort out the rest. -A**

**Moriarty. Alert M. -B**

**Bring back the doc’s gun. Back alley three blocks down. Blue bin. -Q**

**Surveillance upgrade level 3 for 221B. Both. Immediately. -A**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually paused at the scenes where Sherlock thinks of the shortest route, where the London map comes up on screen, and wrote based on that. So if I got something really really wrong, please let me know, otherwise just imagine those routes exists!


	7. A Platonic Relationship... For Now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In all future chapters, I will include some additional pieces outside of Bryn’s story, and they will be indicated by “###” break lines. I promised Johnlock and Mystrade, so here we start! Xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a developing Mystrade in this story. Here's the first installment of how and why there's no smut... FOR NOW.

**### ### Author's POV ### ###**

 

It had been a roller coaster ride since Greg first found out that his wife was cheating. The first time he found out was six months after meeting one Mycroft Holmes, _junkie_ Holmes’ big brother.

The second time he caught his wife cheating was close to two years after meeting Mycroft.

The third time was only two weeks after the second, and she wasn’t even hiding it anymore. But to his own surprise, he was no longer angry or frustrated at her. Greg realised he was more frustrated that Mycroft had cancelled their weekly coffee meeting. Not seeing Mycroft made him felt worse than his wife cheating on him. He was undoubtedly falling head first for Mycroft Holmes.

The day he moved out was the day Carol broke all his DVDs during a fight, including one his dad bought for him the day before he passed away. It was old and no longer plays properly, but to Greg it was a family heirloom where he actually planned to pass along to his children (if he ever has any). Enraged, he randomly shoved clothes into an overnight bag and stormed out his front door, hand clutching the box containing a precious shattered DVD. He was prepared to sleep in his car or in his office, until a black Mercedes sedan drove up next to his car, blocking his own from leaving the parking spot. Without even thinking, he got on the sedan and let it take him to Mycroft’s.

He slept in Mycroft’s guest room for six nights before Mycroft brought _it_ up. They were having dinner in silence, but when Greg brought desserts out from the kitchen, Mycroft said it.

“Would you like to move in?”

“What?” Greg asked, thinking that Mycroft said that sarcastically, trying to hint that he was invading Mycroft’s space. “Am I bothering you by being around? I’m sorry. The moment I find a flat close enough to the Yard that I can afford I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No. Move in. You know how much I detest repeating myself. Would you like to…”

“I can’t.” Greg raised his hand to stop Mycroft from asking again.

“Why?” Mycroft was staring at the slice of banoffee pie in front of him. Greg had seen this face Mycroft was pulling, once, when Sherlock told him out of anger that he wished they were never brothers.

_Rejection. Disappointment._

“Oh god, no. Mycroft. No! I didn’t mean it like that.” Greg thought if he was getting kicked out, he might as well go out with a bang. “I can’t because…” He took a big breath of air and blurted out, muffled, “ _becauseilikeyou_.”

Mycroft looked up at him. Confused, and quite honestly not sure what ‘like’ meant.

“I mean, if I moved in, I wouldn’t be able to… control myself. And I’m still married, even though I don’t love her anymore. I can’t call her a bitch for cheating on me, then turn around and do the same. I would have to reject your offer...” Greg stopped when Mycroft started nodding and humming. “Mycroft?” He reached out and held Mycroft’s hands in his own.

“I had merely given you an option to live here. There was no reason to be cruel, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft said with a bite, pulling his hand away roughly, throwing Greg’s hand away.

 _Shit,_ Greg thought. This man stops using contractions in his sentences when he’s putting up a wall, the wall they had slowly torn down in the name of friendship between them over the past two years, the wall Greg had desperately tried to keep down.

“Stop it. It’s Greg. None of that title business again. I meant it, Mycroft. I really like you. Too much to be in the same house with you for the long term without my feelings returned.” He slowly moved his hands away and kept it on his own lap.

“When have I gave you the idea that your feelings weren’t returned? Why would I have invited you to my home in the first place?”

Greg felt warmth spreading inside him. Mycroft was looking straight into his eyes, a shy smile on his face. He shook his head in response to Mycroft’s question.

“If you’re worried about… cheating, what if we set boundaries, right now? When we come to an agreement, I can get Anthea to move your things over from the safe house.”

“Safe house? Why are my things in your safe house?”

“We intercepted a voicemail left by your wife. She had thrown all your things out of the house and asked you to ‘shove it back up your moral high horse arse’. I’ve asked Anthea to pick it up. I had every intention of revealing that to you this evening, Gregory. I sensed that it was about time you would want to move out on your own. But it seems like I did not foresee this development.”

“Ah, she must have realised that I took everything out of our joint accounts to cover for my DVDs.” Greg said, not even the slightest bit annoyed that Mycroft kept the voicemail and what happened from him.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that, as if he knew how much was in Greg and Carol’s joint accounts.

 _Hang on, of course he knew…_ Greg’s brain supplied.

“So, rules.” Mycroft changing the subject when he noticed Greg catching onto his stalking activities.

“Right... I need a bit of time. Can we talk about it tomorrow? Dinner, perhaps?” Greg asked, hopeful that Mycroft would say yes.

“Would that be a date?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes. I would love to.”

That night, Greg removed the ring on his finger and threw it out his room window, out into the dark overgrown bushes behind Mycroft’s house.

 

The next evening, they had dinner in Greg’s favourite restaurant… or bar. From afar, they just looked like mates hanging out at their local, sharing a pizza and some chips over a few drinks. But if someone had listened in to their conversation, they may find it a little odd.

“Before we get to the rules stuff, can I ask you something?” Greg asked when the waiter left them with their chips.

“I won’t promise to give you an answer, but go ahead and ask.”

“Do you like me? As in, more than a friend?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, I thought that was pretty clear last night.”

“Yes. I do too.”

“Good… that’s... good. Just wanted to be sure.” Greg cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I want to be with you Mycroft, but I hope you understand we can’t cross a certain line until I’m officially divorced.”

“The emotional line or the physical line?”

“Wow. I didn’t think of it like that. But yeah, my idea was not to cross the physical line. Would you be alright with that? If you’re not, I completely understand and I’ll find myself a new place near--”

“It’s alright.” Mycroft interjected.

“Really?”

“Never had time for relationships. Did you think I would…” _Did you think I would know how waking up being held feels like_ , was what Mycroft almost said, “... mind terribly if we held it out for another period of time?”

“Is it alright if I hold your hand?” Greg asked after a short moment of silence between them.

“Why?” Mycroft’s heart was beating so hard, and his hands clenched tightly to keep himself composed.

“Because I would like to check your pulse.” They both knew it was a bullshit excuse.

But Mycroft held his hand out anyway, palm up. Greg snatched his wrist and wrapped his own hand around it. A smile lit across both their faces. They kept their hands together underneath the table until the waitress came back with their pizza.

“Mycroft, promise me something, would you? Promise me you won’t ever tempt me, or push me about this. Promise you’ll wait for me, please?”

“I promise I will try my very hardest, dear Gregory. I am only human after all.”

 

Four months after that promise was made, right after the case with the cabbie serial killer, Greg saw a face he was dying to see all week. Looking over his shoulder from the ambulance, Greg watched as Sherlock and John walked away from the man he had lived with for the past four months.

“Mycroft. What are you doing here? I thought you were away.” Greg asked, a little out of breath as he ran over towards the black sedan still parked right outside his crime scene.

“Good evening Gregory. A little birdie told me that my brother was in trouble again.” Mycroft replied.

“This birdie,” he pointed at Anthea, “or the other one that drives Sherlock around?”

“The other one reports to this one.” Mycroft glanced over to his assistant and saw her texting said ‘other birdie’.

“Anthea, give us a moment please.”

Anthea got into the car without saying another word. Her face still stuck to the phone, firing more instructions to Aaron while managing another operation in China.

“Someone’s got the weapon?” Greg asked quietly.

Mycroft knew he was referring to John’s handgun and nodded. “I guess we are both burning the midnight oil tonight. I have a few things to wrap up from my meetings. What would you like for breakfast in the morning?”

“Depends if I make it back home before my shift starts again. Your brother and John left me with a mountain of paperwork…” Greg paused, thinking about the promise he made Mycroft make, how he had moved in with Mycroft while still married on paper to the unfaithful woman he wanted to divorce. “Speaking of paperwork, Carol’s still not signing those papers, because she’s away on a ‘business trip’. Probably with the bus driver.” Both Greg and Mycroft heard the inverted commas and chuckled quietly together.

“Well, I had offered to get it through for you, but I know how important it is to you that you get things done right. I won’t push it. And you will not be like her. I promised.”

“Yeah, I know. Thank you…” The look in Greg’s eyes told Mycroft how much this man wanted to touch him, to kiss him and to hold him in bed. “I’ll see you in the morning. I want banana pancakes.”

“Banana pancakes again?” Greg nodded excitedly and Mycroft gave in with a smile. “See you in the morning.” Mycroft reached out and gave Greg’s shoulder a squeeze before reluctantly letting go. “Try to cut down on those cigarettes. You’re not getting any younger.”

“I love you too Mycroft.” Greg whispered, but Mycroft was already in his car, two blocks away from the crime scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it wasn't clear enough in the chapter, Greg and Mycroft are living together but in separate rooms, no physical contact. They still date and stuff, but no touching and kissing... until Greg gets his divorce papers. He will, eventually, but to stick as close to canon as possible, he doesn't until further down the line.
> 
> It will come. I promise!


	8. Employment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters this week! This extra chapter is specially dedicated to JunkenMetel. Thank you for being such an amazing reader, and this chapter should give you some answers from earlier comments! xx
> 
> And we are back to Bryn's POV.

**### ### Bryn's POV ### ###**

 

The week after they solved the case with the pink lady, John Watson waved for a cab as I made the corner onto Baker Street. I assumed Sherlock was right behind him. As he got onto the cab, he asked to be taken to Scotland Yard. I couldn’t say no lest he finds out who I really am. But to his credit, he did anyway.

“Hey, you look familiar. Didn’t you take my friend and I to Lauriston Gardens last week?”

Damn it. I should have listened to Anthea. And I suppose after that case with the cabbie they would now pay more attention to who’s driving them around.

“Possibly mate. I go ‘round this side of town often.”

“Right. My friend did pay you that time, yeah? I don’t remember paying.”

Have they upgraded from flatmates to friends already? “Quite sure he did. Would’ve shouted at ya’ll if ya didn’t.”

“He? I didn’t mention his gender…” John paused and I knew he had figured it out. “And you don’t work for Holmes? Seemed suspicious, you know, a cab always showing up just as we walk out the door. And cabs always just around the same corner too.”

Just as he finished his sentence, I heard his phone ring.

“Watson.” He answered. After a few non-committal hums and a groan, he motioned for me to stop. I parked by the side of the road and he handed me the phone.

“Aaron. Please drive Doctor Watson to my office. And come along. We have something to discuss.” It was Mister Holmes.

“Yes sir.” I answered and heard the phone click off. I turned around to hand the phone back to John and looked at him probably a second too long. “I’ll take you to him now.”

“What the fuck is going on?”

As much as I was tempted to, I’ve learned the hard way not to preempt any of Mister Holmes’ guests from twenty long years ago.

 

I was recruited at 17, and that was 20 years ago. I had always been an exemplary student. Straight As, captain of the rugby team, dated both cheerleaders and captain of the ladies football team. The day I finished my A-levels, there was a black Mercedes sedan in front of my home.

A few things went through my mind about its existence. _Did my gran win the lottery? Did my father find dinosaur fossils in the mountains? Or perhaps my mother stole it when she went to London?_

I mean, we were dirt shit poor. My mother used to steal cars in the nearby cities to get by before she met my father. There was no way we could have afforded that car. Also we don’t have any friends or family member with that kind of money. Imagine driving a sedan like that through dirt roads that even horses frown upon.

Walking into my home felt awkward that day. The air smelled different. I knew there was someone new in the house, and I did not like that. I was standing behind the sofa where this stranger was sitting in, my parents on the two-seater on the left. There was only the single seat left.

“Bryn, you’re home.” My mum gasped when she saw me. “Come on, sit down. This nice man wants to offer you a job!” She almost squealed.

Something was fishy. Who comes all the way into a small village to hire a 17 year old?

Apparently Mycroft Holmes did.

Now, at that point in time, he was not the most powerful man in the world, yet. He was second-in-charge, where Anthea is today. He still had most of his hair back then, and his face was… softer, like an uncle twice removed from your mother’s cousin’s side, who meets you once in a blue moon and wants to hug the shit out of you.

My father had his suspicions, thinking that this only happens when rich man come in and kidnap all their children, selling them into modern slavery in the city. I, on the other hand, thought he was trying to harvest my organs and sell them to the highest bidder.

“Mister Driscoll, junior, please, have a seat. I’d like to offer you a job.”

“Why me?”

“Because you possess a talent only few in the world has. I am one of them, but I’m sure you know what I mean. Running around the uncharted valley without getting lost.”

“Map’s up here.” I said, pointing at my own head.

“Precisely. You can map out an area in your head just by walking around it, commit every nook and cranny in your _mind map_ , that’s what I call mine.” He said to me while pointing at his own head, then turned to face my parents. “Unfortunately the terms of employment are only for his ears. Would you allow me five minutes alone with him, perhaps in the kitchen?”

My parents looked proud and worried at the same time, but my father nodded anyway.

I closed the door behind me once I’ve led him into the kitchen. He stood straight and still behind the kitchen counter, leaning against his umbrella.

“I only have a few more minutes before I have to go.” He handed me a file. “Here’s your test. There is a satellite phone in there, connected to my operators. They will be calling you tonight at eight. In between now and then, study everything in that file carefully. Understood?”

“Yeah. Read everything and wait for a call, got it. But who exactly are you?”

“Hmm… I’d like to think I control the world, but not just yet. Perhaps someday.” He opened his pocket watch and started to move towards the door.

“And I can’t tell my parents any of this?”

“Nothing specific. But you can tell them what you think of this offer, if it is legit, just to give them peace of mind. I believe you’ll be able to decide that for yourself after tonight.”

“Sure.” I had the file open on the kitchen counter. “But what is your name?” When there was no reply, I looked up and saw he was gone. Gathering up my things, I walked to the front door to see his car was also gone, along with the men in black suits hiding in our garden.

“Bryn, what’s that about?” My mum asked.

“I can’t tell you yet. They’re giving me a test and I have to pass first. I need to go and study now.”

My dad stood up from beside my mum and gave me a quick pat on the shoulder. “Just make sure you’ll be safe. Don’t want them taking you to places that’ll kill you.”

Every time I recall that conversation, I would scoff. How spot on my dad was! I mean, Woomera did almost kill me. In fact, every single day since I became Aaron, I had one foot in hell’s gate at all times.


	9. Technicality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Answers to "How does the code names really work?"
> 
> And this is where we hit a canon diversion (or what is it called when I'm modifying from BBC Sherlock?). Storyline is pretty much the same, but there are additional off-screen bits I’ve pulled out of thin air, and on-screen bits that I’ve modified to satisfy all us shippers!

As I found out in the first three years of service, shadowing my mentor - J, the code names were actually the first letter of our real first names, exclusively used for the top 20 agents. Q’s name is Quentin, M for Mycroft, A for Aurelia (Anthea), B for Bryn and so forth. It wasn’t always an ‘M’ in charge. It was by pure coincidence that the past three bosses’ names starts with M, and M never uses a cover name like the rest of us. Towards the last few years of my service, we had an ongoing bet on who will be the next M.

I placed my bet on A for Aurelia (Anthea) to break the M cycle.

Betting had always been a part of our lives in the agency, and Q had always been the one who collects the pool. I was told on my first Christmas party with the service that Q started a bet on me during my first exam! Most people bet that I would fail, but M did not. He was sure that I would pass with flying colours, putting a week of holiday in the pool. Eventually, he won and took the week off.

Somewhere during my second year, there was an ongoing bet on who could make Christina cry. She had just started working for Mister Holmes as his personal assistant. We did not include M in this bet, and I won! I was surprised with some of the things Q allowed to be placed in the betting pool. Apparently there were four things we are allowed to bet with - priority to gain access to the best gadgets in Q branch (code: first dibs), personal belongings with market value, holidays, and of course, cash.

Oh... the amount of holidays I’ve racked up over the years were massive! On my fifth year, I spent it all and took six months off to spend time with my grandfather over his 90th birthday.

On my sixth year, my name was officially placed on the top 20 board, and transformed from Aaron to B. Christina never made it to the list, and she left on my eighth year of service. There was another man that replaced Christina, but he didn’t make it far. Two years and he was killed in action, with Mister Holmes barely making it out of China citing Operation Flower as a failed mission. Since then, we knew the top agent coded A had took over as Mister Holmes’ right hand and resolved that operation, but the identity of said person was unknown - until I met her four months ago.

 

As I reminisced of the past, I had driven John Watson all the way across town to Mister Holmes’ office. Leaving the car parked in the right spot, we got off the cab and walked towards the building. Anthea was standing at the front door waiting for us.

“Wait here.” She said to me and signaled John to follow her.

 

I stood inside by the door, phone in my hand, waiting for Anthea’s signal for me to enter. When my phone buzzed, I thought I was summoned, but experienced has taught me not to assume. What I saw made me giggle quietly.

**[BET IS OPEN] 221B. Date and time of first kiss. -Q**

Ever since Sherlock Holmes was an integral part of our jobs, Q had grown personally attached to the young man through his monitors. ‘He just needs some loving’ Q always said when Mister Holmes gives Sherlock hell.

**Within 7 days. First dibs. -B**

I had faith in the doctor. They were obviously dancing around each other, and had been since the night of the cabbie. No one kills a stranger for someone they barely know. John Watson was so transparent, I would be surprised if someone bets that they would never get together.

**Really? First dibs this round is on the Jag I’ve been working on. You sure? -Q**

Holy shit. That Jaguar was only released few years ago in 2003 - the XF 10. With 646 horsepower, a V12 engine, it can go from zero to hundred in four seconds. But that wasn’t the best part… Q had always loved collecting these cars for agents. They were the best ‘first dibs’ wins for any of us because Q-branch outfitted the cars with the best equipments that made them even better than the original.

**Yes. -B**

Hell, now I have a reason to meddle.  _ For the Jaguar,  _ I told myself with a smirk.

**No meddling, bitch. I know you. -Q**

Fuck. I wasn’t expecting to get caught so early… then I looked up and saw a camera pointed at my face. Of course Q read my face. Bloody hell. I was quite sure he started the bet when he saw John Watson headed into M’s office too.

 

Sixteen minutes later, I was asked to enter Mister Holmes’ office. The atmosphere was tense in the room. John Watson sat across Mister Holmes on the leather chairs in front of the fireplace, leaving a third one empty between them.

“Take a sit, Aaron.”

And I sat down.

“Doctor Watson here was wondering who you were. I hope you don’t mind me telling him briefly about your task.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Good. Seeing that you have let yourself be known, I will recommend Anthea to replace you.”

I found my shoes extremely interesting at that very moment. My head was pounding, my vision blurred. I was about to cry. I was being… replaced. What happened to the Bryn Driscoll that he was once very proud of? Had I deteriorated to that extent? I vaguely hear Mister Holmes explaining what will happen when suddenly another voice interrupted him.

“Hang on, Mycroft. You can’t sack the bloke for this!” John spoke over Mister Holmes. “Isn’t his task to not be spotted by  _ Sherlock _ ? As far as I can tell, he hasn’t been noticed by your idiot of a brother. I was a Captain in the army, Mycroft. You shouldn’t be surprised that I could spot him across the football field.”

No one spoke for a while, until Mister Holmes cleared his throat and spoke to me. “Technically, no, you have not failed your task, Aaron. However may I remind you to be more careful in the future, because letting you off on a technicality will only happen this once. Now, the both of you can leave.”

“Yes sir.” Was all I could say. I was so disappointed with myself. I needed a pint... maybe five.

Walking side by side out of the building, John clasped a hand on my shoulder and gave me a reassuring smile. 

“I’m sure you’ve worked with Mycroft for a number of years, but really, don’t worry about it. I’ll make sure Sherlock never finds out.”

“Yeah, since I was seventeen. How could you be so sure he would never find out?”

“I have my ways. So, wanna grab a pint, Aaron?”

“Sure, John.”

 

Eventually, John and I became friends and we hung out quite often when Sherlock’s off on his own doing god-knows-what. One afternoon while Sherlock was at home spring cleaning in his mind palace ( _ I later heard Mrs Hudson saying how she wished he would spend that time cleaning the actual flat instead _ ), John called me out for a drink. We were at a local down the street and sat in the corner table.

“So what made you sell your soul to the devil?” John asked after we had discussed Sherlock’s ‘spring cleaning’ schedule extensively.

I chuckled lightly into my pint. “Not the first time I’ve heard that. Won’t call ourselves angels, but we’re on the good side, trust me. You haven’t seen the real devil yet.”

It had been a week since we sat down with Mister Holmes. John had become a friend since he stood up for me. It looked like Anthea was alright with John being so close to the operators. ‘Keep your enemies closer’ wasn’t baseless, as we have learned the hard way. As that moment, Doctor John Hamish Watson was still under level three surveillance. Everyone is an enemy until proven otherwise.

“What was your worst body count in a single mission?”

“Fifty-seven.” It was a very significant number to me. Dropping that many bodies in a single day took a toll on me. “That was my tenth year. Didn’t expect myself to be dropping bodies like flies, but yeah. It took me out for a couple weeks though. Had to see a shrink every week for almost a year before I was put back on higher priority missions. Yours?”

_ This is nice, having someone to share with. Definitely more effective than talking to a shrink in a stiff room. _

“Thirty-eight. But I saved twelve that same day, so twenty-six.” He took a sip before he continued, “are you allowed to tell me that?” John looked at me with an eyebrow raised. “I mean, I asked but I was really expecting you to say something like ‘If I told you I would have to kill you’.”

“Hollywood makes it seem like we’re not humans, ya’know? We are not allowed to talk about the missions, but nothing stops me from talking about what I’m going through.”

“Had a bad shrink, huh.” It wasn’t a question. He had a terrible psychologist who misdiagnosed him too.

“Yeah, she thought I had trouble blending back into civilian life, but in actual fact, I refused to blend in.”

“The things we do for Queen and country.” John’s phone vibrated on the table - Sherlock Holmes. He sighed and said, “Speaking of her royal highness…” and he read the message.

Sherlock asked John if he could bring back six litres of chlorine. I glanced over and read John’s finger typing a quick “no” before stuffing his phone into his pocket.

_ What on earth would someone do with six bloody litres of chlorine? _

We finished another pint before Mrs Hudson called John frantically, yelling through the phone, something about Sherlock and their flat.

“Ah bugger. That piece of shit just blew a hole through our floor into her ceiling!” John buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“Let’s go. I’ll monitor from outside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly phasing out Bryn's POV. It's getting more and more complicated as the chapters go, so I've decided to play god. Bryn's POV will phase out in Chapter 12, just a heads up!


	10. Diamonds Are Forever, Perhaps.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when John leaves Sherlock alone, and let the sexual tension begin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been getting a little off-track. Don't worry, Chapter 13 onward we will be back to Q-Branch + more Bryn action!

“Sherlock!” John yelled as he ran up the stairs and saw Mrs Hudson standing on the landing by the open door to their flat.

“He’s hiding somewhere John. I know it. He hasn’t left the flat all day.” Mrs Hudson said a little too loudly for just John to hear. She was obviously trying to lure Sherlock out.

“Hang on Mrs H.” John whispered, then spoke a little louder, “he’s asked me to buy six litres of chlorine and I can’t lift them up all on my own. Shoulder’s acting up again…”

“I’ll go get it.” Sherlock appeared from behind the bookshelf and ran straight for the door, shoving past Mrs Hudson but John caught his arm and pulled him back into the flat.

“There he is.” John huffed, “there’s no chlorine Sherlock. What did you do to blow a hole through the floor?”

Sherlock shuffled his feet as if he was a six year old getting caught stealing candies. Mrs Hudson was pissed beyond belief. She puts up with a lot of things, but blowing a hole through their floor and into her ceiling is next level. She pointed at the hole in the middle of their living room where the carpet was rolled aside.

“Shit,” John said, kneeling down on one knee next to the hole, “its big enough to put your foot through! Good thing he didn’t get the electrical wiring or the pipes…”

“Wonderful observation. We just need to cover it back up, which is why I needed the chlorine, John. Did you get it?”

“I’m so sorry Mrs H. We’ll get it fixed.” John said.

“Yes, John will fix it.”

“No, Sherlock! WE will get it fixed. Now go and call someone about it.” When Sherlock scowled, John gave him a shove and glared until Sherlock picked up his phone, calling a contractor.

With a loud huff, Mrs H slowly walked back downstairs mumbling about how she puts up with Sherlock all the time and threatened to not give them muffins this week.

“You may want to apologise to her, take her out for dinner. I’ve grown very fond of her muffins.” John told Sherlock when the consulting detective was done with his call. “What were you doing blowing up our floor?”

“I got a case. I was testing the strength of an explosive when that happened.”

“What case?”

“It’s about a missing diamond. The Jaria diamond.”

Sherlock stopped there. John was expecting him to tell all.

“And?” John asked after a minute of silence. They were both now sat on their respective chairs, the hole on the floor in between them.

“The Jaria diamond vanished when the owner went for a drink and showed it off to his associates. But of course, someone planned to steal it, and it vanished. It’s barely a one, John.”

“If you’re not interested then why were you doing an experiment for the case?”

“Ah, how it was stolen was interesting. He was more interested in the why. The owner claims that there was a mini explosion inside the display cabinet. Just enough to blow a small hole for the diamond to slip through to the bottom. The explosion triggered safety protocols, and the diamond was supposed to be at the bottom of the cabinet, only it wasn’t. The protocol took an hour. By the time they got back to find it, the diamond was gone.”

“Right… how many types of explosives were you going to try?”

“That was the fourth. The first three weren’t strong enough, the fourth blew through an exact replica of the cabinet and through the floor.”

“Well, I guess we’ll need supplies to clean up after this. Wait here for the contractor and I’ll get some shopping done, alright?”

“Sure.”

 

Sherlock was already in his ‘thinking’ pose when John left. As he was leaving, he saw Bryn’s cab waiting across the road. He went over and knocked on his window.

“Hey,” he said when the window rolled down. “Heard everything?”

“Yeah. What an arsehole, talking to Mrs Hudson like that. She really puts up with him, you know?”

“Tell me about it. Listen, I’m just heading out to Tesco. Could you keep an eye on him?”

“Already am.”

“Ta.”

 

It took John an hour before he came back from Tesco… empty handed.

“You took your time.”

“Yeah, I didn’t get the shopping.”

“What? Why not?” Sherlock looked up from the book he was pretending to read.

“Because I had a row with the chip and pin machine.” John was agitated after his scuffle with the self-checkout counter, but he still noticed Sherlock’s hand holding the book. His knuckles were bruised.

“You… you had a row with a machine?” Sherlock asked disbelievingly.

“Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse… what happened to your hand? It wasn’t bruised before.”

“Uh… no.” Sherlock answered a bit too quickly and tried to hide his hand. “Nothing happened.”

“No, something did. Come here, kitchen. Now.” John said as he walked into the kitchen and looked for the first aid kit.

While he was setting down the first aid kit, Sherlock sat on the stool and had his hands on the table, palm down, covering the scratch on the table left behind by the assassin that came by earlier.

“Tell me, what happened here?” John knew Sherlock was hiding something. His hands stretched too far on the table, covering something. As he pulled Sherlock’s right hand towards himself, the lanky git struggled, trying to keep his hand on that spot. “Stop that,” and John yanked a little too hard, pulling Sherlock’s whole body off the stool and suddenly they were too close to each other. Close enough for John to smell him - his expensive body wash, shampoo, the product he use on his hair, and the musky tang of a man’s sweat…

 _No. Absolutely not so soon._ John thought to himself. And he was right to tell himself that. It was way too soon to make a move on Sherlock. Besides, that man told him he’s married to his work, for god’s sake.

“Someone came by.” Sherlock started, sitting back down on the stool. “They want to know why I’m not helping them. I told them I wasn’t interested in a missing diamond, and they got… aggressive.”

“Jesus, Holmes.” John sighed. “And you ended up in a scuffle? How did you get yourself bruised up like this punching someone? Look,” John dabbed the cuts on his hands with antiseptic solution and Sherlock hissed, “there are cuts.”

“Must be some dangly bits on the headscarf he’s wearing.”

“Then what happened?”

“Sent them a message.”

John stuck a few Elastoplast on Sherlock’s hand and held them a little too long. When he looked up, he found Sherlock’s eyes and they stared at each other. John thought he saw something in Sherlock’s eyes, but cleared his throat and removed his hands from holding Sherlock’s.

 _Still too soon._ “Right. Do you still need the chlorine by the way?” John tried to ease the tension in the room by changing the subject.

“No. Take my card.”

“For what?”

“You’ve obviously had trouble with yours. Just take mine, for the shopping.”

 

When John returned from Tesco, he found Sherlock reading something on his laptop. While he was struggling to ask Sherlock to lend him some money, the detective suddenly wanted to go to the bank.

And then they were at Shad Sanderson, an investment bank, meeting Sherlock’s apparent ‘old friend’ from university, Sebastian.

“This is my friend, John Watson.”

“Friend?” Sebastian asked.

“Friend, flatmate, colleague.” John answered with a shrug. Sebastian scoffed while Sherlock gave John a loopy grin, one that made John think he was happy about having a friend.

 

Leaving the bank left John a little befuddled. The way Sebastian teased Sherlock about his deductions irked John a little. _‘We hated him.’_ Sebastian’s voice rang in his ears. He wanted it to stop, but how could anyone hate Sherlock? He’s brilliant, smart, and to top it all off, amazingly good looking with legs that ran for miles!

They sat quietly at the back of the cab, Sherlock obviously processing the information about the painted cipher left behind by someone. Sherlock knew it was meant for Edward Van Coon, and there wasn’t many Van Coons in the phone book. Within seconds he found the address of Edward Van Coon on and online directory, and they were headed towards his home.

 

After finding Van Coon dead in his own home, murdered, Sherlock thought it’ll be best to update Sebastian immediately. Instead of calling like a normal person would, he decided to crash a dinner meeting.

Sebastian was annoyed, rightfully so. But to Sherlock, it was all about the puzzle. That man wouldn’t give two shits about instructions, even if they were paid handsomely to follow it.

At home that night, John couldn’t sleep. He kept thinking about how close Sherlock was, how he smelled and how chicken shit he was not kissing the man! His thoughts wandered along the hands of Sherlock’s under his own, how smooth his skin was even with the amount of experiments he did… He sat up abruptly when his cock started filling up, and decided to write a quick blog post to rid of his dirty thoughts.

 **_Diamonds are forever_ ** ****_  
_ _Except they're not. No story here because Sherlock decided not to take the case. Apparently a missing diamond isn't 'interesting' enough._  
_Still, we discovered a body today so that's something for him to get excited about._

 

Twelve seconds after he clicked ‘Post Entry’, his phone pinged.

 

**Where have I heard that phrase before? Diamonds are forever? -SH**

**James Bond. You have heard of James Bond?**

**I’ve heard of him, yes. -SH**

**You haven’t seen one, have you? Right, we are having a Bond night.**

**It’s nice to have something to look forward to. -SH**

**Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Sherlock.**

**That's demonstrably untrue. That clip of a[cat falling off a shelf](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWUqENctOvo) for example. The one you insisted on watching twelve times. -SH**

**That WAS funny. Anyway, why are you texting me when you're sat downstairs?!**

**I. AM. BORED. And I'm wondering how much of that leftover explosive I'd need to accurately blow up your cans of beer… -SH**

**OK OK I'm coming down.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about Bond night was from John’s blog. The texts between them were originally comments on that blog post, but I thought texting would be more intimate, and warped the context a little to fit my scene.
> 
> Warning (or good news to some) - SMUT NEXT CHAPTER. We are sooooo getting there!


	11. Bond Night

“Do you still have more of those explosives in the flat?” John asked breathlessly after running down the stairs. His erection had waned, but at the sight of Sherlock lying flat on the sofa with his dressing gown fallen off his thighs, he felt his heart skip a beat and turned towards the kitchen before Sherlock noticed the front of his pajamas tenting.

“Of course. I meant to keep them for my next experiment.”

John grabbed a beer from the fridge and adjusted his pants to hide his half hard cock. When he was happy with how it looked, he turned and headed back to the front.

“Scoot over. We’re watching James Bond tonight.”

Sherlock leaped up and tried to escape.

“Oh no, you are not running away from this!” John grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and pulled him back down onto the sofa. “Stay still.” John instructed and went to put on Goldfinger.

“You were serious about Bond night.” Sherlock whined, but nonetheless stayed seated on the sofa with a throw pillow across his lap. If John didn’t know Sherlock better, he would’ve thought that as an invitation to lie down.

It actually was.

They were halfway through the movie when Sherlock started complaining. “That is just… ugh! Why are you making me sit through this, John? It makes no sense!” Sherlock had been pointing out plot holes and technical flaws of the movie since the beginning.

John thought that was endearing.

Sherlock made a move to leave the sofa again, but John caught him in time and pushed him back down. Before Sherlock could react, John had the pillow back on his lap and laid his head down on it.

“Come on. It’s your first Bond film. At least finish the movie before you make further judgement. You don’t have enough data to say it’s all shit anyway.” John looked up through his eyelashes and saw Sherlock blush. It could be the wine Sherlock had, but John would like to think that he was affected by how close they now were.

“Movies does not deserve my time nor my brain power.” Sherlock said while tilting his head down.

 _‘Oh, sod it.’_ John thought to himself and reached his hand up for Sherlock’s head. He wanted to pull the detective down for a kiss, but Sherlock couldn’t bend that far down. In that moment, John sat up and straddled Sherlock with the pillow still in between their groins. He held Sherlock’s face in his hands, waiting for the man to push him away, but he didn’t.

So he leaned down and let their lips meet.

And around the world, operatives were receiving messages that they had lost their bets. Only one Bryn Driscoll got the good news, and his celebratory howls could be heard by his neighbours.

“That ok?” John asked when he pulled away. It was an innocent kiss, just a peck on the lips, but John wanted more. He needed Sherlock to be alright with more.

Sherlock nodded. They were both breathing harder, and Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around John’s torso, pulling the doctor closer to his chest. John kissed Sherlock harder this time, moving his lips a little, slotting his bottom lip in between Sherlock’s. A soft moan escaped the detective’s throat and John couldn’t help but chuckle.

He was happy. Very happy.

They continued to kiss, eventually their tongues got involved and their hands were roaming each other’s body. When John pulled away to breathe, Sherlock stiffened and pushed John to the side of the sofa, running straight towards the kitchen without saying anything.

“What is it? Sherlock…” John walked slowly towards Sherlock and placed his hand gently on the detective’s, the same way he had his hands over Sherlock’s few days ago while he was bandaging it.

“Shh. Come with me.” Sherlock pulled John to the corner where the bookshelf meets the walls, except it doesn’t meet the wall. There was a small gap in between, enough for both of them to fit.

Then Sherlock leaned forward and whispered in John’s ear, “This is a blind spot. I know they’re listening. Let’s not give them a show.”

“How did you-- _umphh pmmhh hmm uhhmm mmhhhhhh?_ ” John’s question was muffled by Sherlock’s palm over his mouth, but the detective knew exactly what John was asking.

“Let’s go get some Chinese. Get changed.” Then Sherlock pulled himself out of the gap and went straight into his own bedroom.

John went upstairs, got changed and chose his tightest pair of pants. It would be extremely uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to walk out of the flat with an obvious erection.

It was almost midnight when they got to the takeout restaurant. Sherlock knew the owners and got them out of an immigration fine for hiring illegal workers. After they had gotten their food, the owner made himself scarce.

“I’ve always known Mycroft had people following me. Most of the time I chose to ignore them because I knew if I made it known that I knew, Mycroft would sack them. There were a few disgruntled agents that had came back for revenge, so exposing them for fun wasn’t worth the hassle later.

It used to be just people on the street following me, a random international student in my class, or someone too decent to be looking for a flatshare. This one though, he was good. Before I met you, I didn’t notice him at all, until I accidentally threw cookie wrappers at him instead of cash one time when I was high. When the high came down I remembered, and since then I haven’t paid actual money for any of my cab rides.”

“That explains why I didn’t remember you paying the cab that first night.”

“Well, it isn’t always him. Some days I get yelled at for not paying, then I know it’s not him… It wasn’t difficult finding out about the cab company too. I just didn’t expect Mycroft to reach so far this time, setting up a company and taking over the Transport Ministry, all that just to keep an eye on me. That night when we chased the cabbie, he was there, the cabbie.”

John lifted an eyebrow in confusion. “Which cabbie is… who?”

“Try to keep up John. The bad one in the classroom with me, and the one that works for Mycroft spying outside the room I was in. Our cabbie, apparently. The one you’ve become friends with, Aaron. Not his real name by the way.”

“And how did you know that?”

“Your passwords aren’t exactly Fort Knox. And they never use their real names.”

“Right. And he was there when I sh--” John paused and looked around, then continued in a hushed tone, “ _shot the bad cabbie?_ ”

“He was. But he was well hidden. I didn’t notice he was there until I was leaving, caught a moving shadow in the corner of my eye. There were only three possible places he could hide in the split of a second, and I chose the closest one to the doors to stare at. If I was right, he would think he was found out.”

“He did.”

“I was right! I’m always right!” Sherlock exclaimed. When he noticed John staring up from his favourite _sweet and sour pork_ , he explained, “I’ve been wondering if I chose the right spot this whole time. Ever since I’ve decided not to expose them, the ‘Secret Agent Puzzle Room’ was filling up. Now it’s one down filed in my ‘Solved Puzzles’ room. And you need to explain to me why Mycroft hasn’t sacked him yet.”

“Well, Mycroft kidnapped me, and I told them I’ll keep you from knowing…” John looked around again and whispered, “shit. Do you think they’ve been listening here?”

“Not a chance.” Sherlock said in his normal tone. “The owner here was with the Chinese intelligence agency. He’s more paranoid than Mycroft is. Sweeps the place every morning before opening.”

“ _Ugh._ And I knew they bugged our flat. Almost gave them a good show too.”

“If I knew for sure that Mycroft was watching I would’ve done it.”

“Oh, no you don’t. We’re not gonna let our first time be motivated by your brother’s voyeuristic tendencies.”

“Why not?”

 _‘Actually… yeah, why not? It’s just who we are, isn’t it?’_ John thought. And as if Sherlock read his mind, he leaned across the table and gave John a kiss, lips covered in sweet and sour sauce. Watching Sherlock lick it off reminded John’s throbbing cock its existence.

“Let’s go. I’m in the mood for dessert.”

“There’s nowhere open for desserts now John.”

“I know a place…” And John pulled out his most seductive smile, “221B Baker Street.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I lied about the smut :P  
> Let's keep John on the edge for a little longer...


	12. Itsy-Bitsy Spider

**### ### Author's POV ### ###**

The next morning, John woke up tangled in a blanket he did not recognise. It was softer than his own, and thicker.

It was Sherlock’s.

The night before came back to him, and he smiled to himself. He reached his arm over to the other side of the bed and found the owner of this bed. Slowly opening his eyes, he saw a pair of blue-green eyes staring right into his.

“Good morning.” Sherlock said while moving himself closer to John and wrapped himself around the doctor.

“Indeed.” John’s nose was buried in Sherlock’s hair and he inhaled the smell of Sherlock before all the hair product was used. It smelled like home.

Just when John was about to move Sherlock to see his face, someone’s phone rang.

“Ah, shit! Sherlock, what day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“Bugger sodding… fuck! I have an interview.” John pulled himself away from Sherlock and ran out to get his phone, naked.

Sherlock was enjoying the view of John’s behind until it was out of sight. He turned and laid on his back, listening to John’s one-sided conversation asking them to reschedule his interview for an hour later. Which meant that he would need to leave in fifteen minutes, thirty if Aaron would take him in the cab.

While Sherlock was thinking of that, John came back into the room and laid on top of Sherlock, kissing the man chastely, and announced that he needs to leave soon.

“Go. I’ll be here when you get back. I need to solve the case.”

“Got time for a shower with me?” John asked seductively.

“We have twenty-eight minutes.”

 

John came back from the interview at a local clinic for some locum work a few hours later. There was a brooding Sherlock staring at the painted signs when he walked in the door. Also, the detective had found another murder, exactly the same as Van Coon.

They went to DI Dimmock, and was granted access to the crime scene for five minutes. There was a lot Sherlock could find in five minutes.

Apparently too much.

Sherlock stole a book from the crime scene that led the duo to the library, and found another painted sign, the same one as they found at the bank, behind a shelf.

“We need to go somewhere. Come on John.”

John followed right behind Sherlock. They were headed somewhere, but Sherlock doesn’t stop to get a cab. He explained to John the whole way as they were walking, about cryptography. As they walked up the stairs towards the museum, Sherlock said something unexpected.

“I need to ask some advice.”

“What? Sorry?” John wasn’t teasing, but he couldn’t believe his own ears.

“You heard me perfectly. I’m not saying it again.”

Admitting that he needed advice was difficult. John wondered what had happened to Sherlock when he was younger to be so insecure about his inadequacies in certain areas.

 

Before he could realize what had just happened, Sherlock had abandoned him with spray cans in his hands, and Community Support officers taking him away to the station.

By the time he got home, Sherlock dismissed his complaints about an ASBO and his court date with a ‘good, fine’. His head was still wrapped around the cipher. All John wanted was to take off his jacket, make himself a nice cuppa and sit down, relax, perhaps watch some crap telly for the rest of the day.

But noooo. Sherlock had other plans for him.

“No, I need you to go to the police station, ask about the journalist. His personal effects would’ve been impounded. Get hold of his diary or something that will tell us his movements.”

 

Them walking down the stairs triggered Bryn to move. He realised that they would be splitting up in this investigation and called his team to keep an eye on Sherlock. It seemed like he would be walking to see Van Coon’s personal assistant at the bank. John would need the cab.

 _‘Can’t blow my cover again.’_ Bryn thought as he pulled up at 221 Baker Street.

John got on the cab and asked Bryn to take him to Scotland Yard. On their way there, John pulled out a printed picture of the cipher and showed it to Bryn. He recognised it. Last time he saw this was during the extraction of Mister Holmes in China. It had ties to Operation Flower. To the person who shot M.

Black Lotus. They are back in London.

 

**### ### Bryn's POV ### ###**

_A/N: This **might ** be the last of Bryn’s POV. I haven’t planned for any in the future, but Bryn will still be an integral part of the story line until the end! _

 

Black Lotus was one of the smuggling arms of antiques under Moriarty’s network. Years ago, Operation Flower was leaked and almost killed Mycroft. Mycroft’s kneecap was shattered by a high caliber gun, and his right hand man was killed in that operation. I remember the moment we got a call about an extraction operation like it was yesterday. Over the years we had grown fond of Mister Holmes. Even though we call him the Iceman, we knew deep down inside he cared.

“Code Falcon. Departing in ten.” It was the five words that made my heart drop. On my seventh year in service, Mister Holmes officially took over as the boss, and the top agents were given a special briefing. We were briefed by Q, who laid down the importance of Code Falcon. It meant ‘drop everything and get your arse here even if you were seconds to an orgasm’. It was only used for M’s extraction.

We lost J in that mission. Till today we don’t know if he was dead or alive. We hope he was dead. Being alive in the hands of Black Lotus would be painful, even to think of.

M had always carried an umbrella with him. It used to be a regular umbrella until after that mission. He was under house arrest by A for six long months. He wasn’t allowed to go into the office. All his physiotherapies were done in his home, and A managed to shuffle everything around him, allowing him to recover.

It was also that time when Q started making weaponized umbrellas. They are absolutely terrifying.

I remember checking into Q-branch for an evaluation when he asked me to test the latest version of it. The fabric is bullet proof. The handle held a sword, a gun and a small pin needle with two grams of botulinum toxin. Botulinum is the world’s most toxic substance known. 0.000001 grams would be fatal to a 70kg person. Imagine how many he could kill with two grams.

When M returned to active duty, he was required to have the umbrella with him at all times. There were a few instances where A found him carrying a regular umbrella, and the shitstorm that went through Q-branch was terrifying.

 

After dropping John off at New Scotland Yard, I waited until he was out of sight before I texted Anthea.

**Ops Flower back in London. 221B on its tail. Advice to proceed? -B**

**Do not let them engage at all cost. 1800 at Q for briefing. -A**

 

Two hours after sending John to the Yard, they found Soo Lin’s apartment and Sherlock got ambushed. I was sure they would find the shop, both armed with Van Coon and the journalist’s schedules, but _boy,_ have I fucked up by underestimating Sherlock’s ability to relate Soo Lin’s apartment to The Lucky Cat. Why had he thought that soaked mail had anything to do with it?

Only Sherlock knows...

That same evening, I knew John and Sherlock would be alright on their own, probably would appreciate the alone time if they knew. Leaving them unattended for an hour shouldn’t be problem. Besides, I’m sure Anthea has contingency plans if they decide to leave the flat while I’m attending the briefing.

It was nice to see Samuel again, but god, he looked like shit.

“Hey Ben, how’re you holding up?”

“I feel like shit, they make me do shit and I need a shit.”

“If you can still crack jokes it means you’re alright. You’ve done worse bubba.” Q quipped as he walked into the briefing room with Anthea right behind him, and M was right behind her.

“Gentleman. Do not let Sherlock engage, at all cost. I’m sure you are all aware of his new relationship status with John Watson, make sure he’s in your radar as well.”

“Here are your instructions. Godspeed.” Anthea said while dropping two identical folders in front of us, and a Jaguar’s car key in front of me. She winked, then turned around and followed M out of the room.

“Congratulations. You’ve won the bet. Now, let’s get down to business.” Q followed up the briefing. It was simple. Follow John and Sherlock, contain Black Lotus, and capture Zhi Zhu and General Shan.

 

Simple in writing, that is.


	13. Circus Clowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John & Sherlock on a date. Canon divergence - John never dated anyone else since the first BBC episode.  
> #JOHNLOCK4EVER
> 
> I'm fangirling with myself so hard right now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chinese conversations - _Italics are translations_

Soo Lin was one of the first Black Lotus runners into Britain. After a few passes, she fell into J’s radar. The last time she entered the United Kingdom, J picked her up and recruited her. He knew she wanted to leave that life behind, and offered her an out for information.

Bryn was told during the briefing that Soo Lin was safe. They had sent agents to pick her up from her apartment the day they realised Zhi Zhu had passed through immigration into the UK under one of his known alias.

Soo Lin was hidden in the safehouse accessible through an underground tunnel into the museum. It was built many years ago when Soo Lin first came into the country. Unfortunately the intel she had was slightly outdated, which caused the failed mission that got J captured, or if he was fortunate, killed.

That same night after the briefing, Bryn was told that Sherlock and John are looking for more codes, and received a location to rendezvous with his backup. When he arrived, John was running away from their hiding spot, calling for Sherlock. There were codes left behind by Black Lotus on the wall adjacent to where they were hiding.

“Cover it up. Do not let them get access to it.”

“Too late. He took a picture.” The backup said.

“Cover it up anyway.” Bryn instructed.

“Gotcha.”

As Bryn walked away, he heard sounds of spray cans hissing, confident that Raz would do well. His own task was to be one step ahead of Sherlock, and that meant finding Soo Lin before the duo did.

 

He hid in the dark and watched Soo Lin remove a teapot from the display case, taking it to her station. Sherlock was right behind her. When he made himself known, it startled her, almost dropping the antique teapot. When Sherlock and John spoke to Soo Lin in the museum, it was too late for Bryn to stop them from getting involved. She had revealed too much to them. Now, he can only hope that all three of them don’t get hurt.

 

Sherlock made a chase for who he thought was Zhi Zhu when shots were fired. In actual fact, Zhi Zhu was right within Bryn’s line of sight. He was waiting for John to leave her alone before moving in on her. And when John ran after Sherlock, Bryn knew Soo Lin was as good as dead.

Zhi Zhu made his move and stood face to face with his only sister.

“大哥,请你不要,好吗?” _Brother, I beg you not to, please?_ She begged. She knew he was about to kill her. Pleading would not work. Bryn had to make himself known now. And he stood out into the light, but Zhi Zhu still had his back towards him. He was still too far away from them to move in.

“It’s none of your business, please, just leave.” She pleaded when she saw Bryn. “They will kill you too.”

Zhi Zhu held out his hand, holding Soo Lin’s, “跟爸爸妈妈说我很想念他们, 我们一家人很快就会团圆了.” _Tell dad and mom I missed them, and we will all be together again soon._ Zhi Zhu said, and he shot his sister right in the head. As soon as he pulled the trigger, he ran, and Bryn was on his tail. He didn’t want to open fire and attract Zhi Zhu’s accomplice. His accomplice met him few streets away from the museum and ran zigzag for another few hundred meters before Bryn lost them.

**Lost them. Up surveillance. -B**

**Got your back. Still tracking them. Fucking monkeys are climbing pipes with a piece of cloth! Go back to SH. -Q**

 

It took John two minutes to run back to where she was, but it was too late. There was a black lotus origami on her hand. He’s seen many blown bits of bodies during his time in war, but seeing an innocent party, a young woman nonetheless, had made John’s heart weep. She was bright and could have gone far in life, but was unfortunately born into the wrong family, falling into the wrong side of society.

The duo managed to proof to DI Dimmock later that night that the murders were linked, and Soo Lin’s intel was genuine. Sherlock figured the books in Lukis and Van Coon’s apartment would lead them to the cipher’s code. As they spent the entire night cataloging, Bryn and Q can only hope they don’t figure out which book.

 

While John was away at the clinic the next morning, Sherlock kept cataloguing the books, but he was getting nowhere. Most days when he’s stuck, he would stop and think of another way in. Today was not Bryn and Q’s lucky day, because Sherlock was one step closer to figuring it out.

“A book that everybody would own.”

The moment Q heard Sherlock saying that, he fired out a message to all agents on the case.

**AZ Activated. Proceed with caution. -Q**

 

John stepped into the cluttered living room and was hoping to catch some sleep, but was stopped short when Sherlock announced that they were going out.

“I need to get some air. We’re going out tonight.” Sherlock announced casually.

“What? Like a date?”

Sherlock was terrible at acting nonchalant. “What date?”

“Where two people who like each other go out and have fun?”

“That’s what I was suggesting.”

“No, it wasn’t. You found something, haven’t you.”

There was a long pause, Sherlock contemplating if he wanted to tell John about the real reason they are going to a Chinese circus. He decided not to, and handed the flyer to John.

John laughed nervously, wondering what on god’s green earth made Sherlock think he’s capable of planning a date.

“We like each other, hmm?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah.”

“And we are going out, and possibly have a lot of fun?” _In our own way chasing down a murderous Chinese gang_ , Sherlock supplemented that in his own mind.

“Perhaps…”

“Then that is exactly what we are doing tonight John. We are going out, on a date.”

 

It was to be expected that a date with Sherlock Holmes isn’t like any other dates. Of course he’s found something, and the circus held the key to all the answers.

Halfway through the performances, Sherlock disappeared into the backroom and left John looking for him. John saw some odd movements in the drapes behind the center stage and suddenly Sherlock came flying out. The performers (or criminals) put up a fight, and John knocked one of them out. Sherlock could only catch a glimpse of his foot before John pulled him, running away from the location.

“It’s too dangerous Sherlock. There must be more of them around.” John scolded while pushing Sherlock into the cab he just flagged down.

“But he’s just there! We need to go back there John! I need answers!” He struggled at the back of the cab, but John was quicker, and held him in a shoulder lock. “Ow ow ow ow! John you’re hurting me!”

“Not as badly hurt as I would be if you were killed by Chinese gang members!” John knew they were in the safe cab, therefore there was no holding back when he shouted at Sherlock.

Bryn drove the cab away from where the circus was, and John asked to be taken to Scotland Yard. While they were on the road, Q sent a team to the circus and nabbed the one man left behind by Black Lotus, unconscious, but not dead.

Q’s team barely made it out before DI Dimmock and his team flooded the building. They obviously would find nothing. Q made sure of it.


	14. Love

John and Sherlock made it back to their flat after a round of scolding by DI Dimmock. He was pissed that his team had to work overtime and had nothing to show for it. While John busied himself in the kitchen trying to find something to eat, he only found rotten pickled onions (how long would pickles need to be kept to be rotten?) and was about to settle for some biscuits when Mrs Hudson came up with some tea and nibbles.

“Oh, Mrs Hudson, you are a saint.” John whispered.

“Can’t have a date end with stale biscuits, can it?” She whispered back.

He gave her a hug and a peck on her cheek before she left. As he walked back into the sitting room and placed a cuppa down for Sherlock, he noticed in one of the evidence bags, the cipher had scribbles on it.

“Sherlock?” He elbowed Sherlock gently, but there was no response. “Sherlock, look.” John nudged Sherlock a little harder this time.

“Oh John. What is it-- Oh, oh!” Sherlock exclaimed when he looked at what John was pointing at. “Soo Lin, at the museum, she started to translate the code for us. We didn’t see it.”

As he explained to John that the book to cracking the cipher must be on Soo Lin’s desk, he grabbed his scarf and gloves, hoping to make it to the museum before Soo Lin’s belongings were taken away. Sherlock ran down the stairs and tried to flag a cab turning the corner when he bumped into a couple.

 

Bryn was turning the corner when he heard M’s voice through his earpiece.

“Do not stop for him. He’s getting too close.”

And Bryn continued driving. In his ear he heard Q said, “It’s pointless. He’s got it figured out.”

 

Q was right that Sherlock did figure it out. He ran straight for the German couple from earlier, and snatched the ‘London A to Z’ guide they had.

“Deadman. You were threatening to kill them.”

Sherlock stayed squatted by the sidewalk and deciphered the rest of the cipher from the wall. Q saw it through the CCTV and knew that it was too late. Sherlock was diving head first into Black Lotus’ operation.

 

All that happened while John ordered takeaway and set the table for supper. He opened a bottle of wine, sniffed it twice to make sure it wasn’t refilled with acid, and poured out two glasses. When someone knocked on the door downstairs, for a split second he wondered how did the delivery boy got here so quickly, but dismissed that thought in favour of filling his stomach.

In hindsight, he wished he was not dictated by his need for food like Sherlock.

 

When Sherlock figured out the whole thing, he ran up to the flat, announcing the good news to John, who was nowhere to be found. Then he saw the yellow spray painted cipher on his windows.

They had taken John.

 

While Sherlock was frantically looking for clues, John woke up, tied to a chair, interrogated by a Chinese lady who thought that he was Sherlock.

_'Look at all the evidence, John. Keep up!’_ John heard Sherlock’s voice in his head.

“I suppose there’s no use me trying to persuade you I was doing an impression.” John said sarcastically at first, but jerked back a little when there was a gun pointed to his head. It had been awhile since he was in a situation like this. The last time it happened, he was rescued. But just as they were leaving the enemy’s area, they were ambushed and he was shot. The feeling of despair, and hope, and despair again was nasty. Not one that John wanted to experience again.

But when she announced that she was Shan, John knew he had to pretend, he had to drag this out until Sherlock, and hopefully Mycroft’s people, come to rescue him. From his experience, he knew she wouldn’t kill him that very instance. He was confident that it was a ruse to make him talk.

The sound of a trigger being pulled made John flinch and his life flashed before his eyes. Sherlock's face was the only one he saw when the gun clicked. It was empty. A sigh of relief escaped John.

Then she reloaded her gun, and asked about the treasure. When John claimed that he had no idea what she was talking about, she revealed the crossbow they used in one of their shows, and assured John that the arrow was very real. He didn’t have much time. There’s only as much time as the sandbag held.

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes!” He pleaded in desperation. His life had just turned around. Yes, the thrill of chasing criminals pulled him out of his depression, but not to this extent...

“Still denying yourself so confidently? Perhaps you don't love yourself, just like no one loves YOU!” Shan yelled and signalled her henchmen to release the sandbag.

“If there is one person in the world that loves Sherlock, it's me!” His shout echoed through the tunnel.

And hiding behind some construction materials piled high, was Sherlock Holmes. He wondered if he had heard John mistakenly due to the echo. John could have said something else that sounded like what he thought he said… _Did he say he loves me?… file for later. Time to save John._

“You should believe him, you know. Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him.”

At the sound of Sherlock’s voice, John let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding in. At the same time he was worried about what he had declared earlier… but no time for that now. He needed to stay sharp when shit hits the fan, and he was absolutely sure it would.

“How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?”

“Late?”

Sherlock started a racket and Shan was running away. John wasn’t sure what was happening until Sherlock appeared behind him and started untying the rope binding his wrists. And for a short moment, John thought the whole ordeal was over, until one of Shan’s men came behind him and pulled Sherlock away by his neck. They were struggling for only a moment, then multiple footsteps echoed through the tunnel.

“Drop him.” It was Mycroft, and Lestrade right behind him with a dozen of heavily armed men. “I said drop him now.”

And Sherlock was dropped. He pulled John along with the chair he was bound to, slightly to the left when the arrow was released, brushing past John’s right shoulder, striking Shan’s henchman straight in his torso.

It was too close. John saw the arrow headed straight for his shoulder and suddenly he was back in the dessert. Explosions, gunfire, sweat and blood filled his mind. There was someone crying, someone sobbing and screaming in the vast wasteland with gunfire in the distance, people’s voices echoing in the distance. John hazily realised the crying and screaming was coming from himself, only for a short few seconds, then there was nothing.

 

“It’s alright, you’re alright now.” Sherlock quickly released John from the chair and cradled the doctor in his arms.

John was shaking, crying, screaming and thrashing about. Sherlock knew coming this close to getting shot at must have triggered his PTSD. Even with John’s fists flying close to his face, he held John, rocking back and forth trying to calm the man down.

“I promise you, next date won’t be like this.” Sherlock said with his lips pressed to John’s forehead.

“Take him home, brother mine. We’ll sort this out.” Mycroft said as he looked down at his brother, struggling to keep the doctor still. His cries could be heard from outside the tunnel, and Sherlock nodded.

“Dimmock’s on his way. I’m not supposed to be here!” Lestrade yelled from the entrance of the tunnel, motioning for Mycroft to leave.

“Take good care of him, Sherlock.”

“Don’t need you to tell me that.”

Taking John back to the flat was difficult. He had to carry John bridal style out of the tunnel and walk past Dimmock. The DI had received instructions from above to keep them out of their reports, and Dimmock was more than happy to be the hero. As Sherlock walked by, he said quietly, “I’ll go where you point me.”

“Exactly.” It was all Sherlock said as he walked away with John in his arms.


	15. Rarely Sleep

Mycroft was in an emergency meeting with the CIA when he heard the emergency tone on his mobile go off.

**AZ Activated. Proceed with caution. -Q**

He was seeing red. In between disappointment and anger towards his operatives, he knew Sherlock would get to it, but wasn’t expecting it to be so soon.

“I’m sorry gentlemen. It seems like I have a more pressing matter to attend to than your so-called emergency.” Without waiting to hear their complaints about how this would affect upcoming elections, Mycroft switched off his laptop and headed for the door immediately. He estimated another four hours before Sherlock would be standing face to face with Shan.

“Mycroft?” Greg called out when he heard a door slam upstairs. The rattle that he heard after the slam indicated that it was Mycroft’s office door. It has a fancy knocker that had came loose four months ago and rattles when he closes the door a little too hard.

Greg had just got back from the Yard and was heating up some leftover bolognese sauce in the kitchen. The pan was still simmering when Mycroft appeared in the kitchen.

“I’m alright, Gregory. Just got some… issues.”

“Is Sherlock alright?” Greg was now worried. It wasn’t very often that Mycroft lashes out physically towards inanimate objects. In fact, it had only happened twice since Greg had moved in.

“Won’t be in a few hours. I need to go. Don’t wait up for me. Goodnight.” He gave Greg a peck on the lips and turned around to leave, only to be pulled back by a strong arm around his waist.

“Hang on,” Greg turned off the stove with one hand, abandoning his dinner and grabbed his own jacket on the kitchen counter, “I’m coming with you.”

Mycroft knew there was no point arguing with the DI about how dangerous this could be, from experience. Gregory would always end the argument with ‘because I want to and I’m a grown ass man capable of defending himself’.

“Car’s waiting.”

In the car on their way to Mycroft’s office, he was monitoring Sherlock’s movements and saw that his brother was about to go back to the museum. Pushing a few buttons on his mobile, he lifted it to his ear and instructed Aaron to not pick Sherlock up.

Sherlock was too close to Shan. Way too close for him to stay calm.

Mycroft had to ask Greg to sit in front with the driver while he worked behind with the privacy screen up. It also ensured that he was working in a soundproof environment.

In the ten minutes journey, he had managed to plan all the way ahead to have agents standby at the Black Lotus’ hideout. It wasn’t difficult to figure out their cipher, but he wanted to make sure Shan was there before he made a move.

And three hours later, she was, with John Watson tied to a chair with an arrow pointed right at his head.

Shan had tried to run in all that commotion, but Mycroft’s men had gotten to her first. They kept her pinned at a corner of the tunnel, waiting for Mycroft. After Sherlock had took John out of the tunnel, he turned and went straight to where Shan was.

“Moriarty.” Was all he said, and she tried to hide the fear in her eyes, but that split second was all Mycroft needed to know for sure.

“Let her go.”

As much as he would enjoy returning the favour for J, it would have posed a greater risk, one he may not be able to manage. Moriarty cannot know that Mycroft was onto him, and Mycroft knows Shan won’t make it out of London alive - Moriarty would make sure of it.

  


The next morning, John woke up with a pounding headache. He reached up and felt the bandage on his head, then his shoulder hurt from the movement. As he tried to stretch his body out, Sherlock walked into the room with a cup of tea and two pills in his hand.

“Painkillers, and tea.”

“Ta.”

It was when John sat up, he realised he was in his pajamas, smelling fresh, and in Sherlock’s bed. The consulting detective, however, was still in the same suit he was in last night, with a ghastly look on his face.

“Do you want to know what happened last night?” Sherlock offered when John frowned at him.

“Yeah. How did I get in bed? I don’t remember much.”

Sherlock recounted everything that happened from when he realised which book was used to translate the code, up to the point where he found John. He paused at the point when John said that he loved Sherlock.

“What happened next?” John pushed. With how Sherlock stopped at that part of the recounting, he knew Sherlock had heard.

“Do you really want to know?”

“I do.”

“You shouted something. I heard you.”

“And what did you hear?”

“I’m not sure. Would you tell me?”

“If there is only one person in the world who loves Sherlock, it's me. But of course, you know that’s not true. You probably love yourself so much there’s never going to be enough to top that...”

“If that was your way of saying I’m an obnoxious narcissist, you are probably right. But I am willing to share some of that with you, John Watson.” Sherlock finished the story nonchalantly, trying to avoid John’s eyes but failing miserably.

“And you’re probably the only person in the world who would rephrase ‘ _I love you too’_ that way.” John chuckled and gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze, prompting him to continue with the recounting.

“Then I saved you, Mycroft and Lestrade showed up, I carried you back here, threw you in the shower and here we are.”

John reached out and touched Sherlock’s eye bag gently with his fingertips, “you didn’t get any sleep?”

“No. I played the violin all night. Mrs Hudson is going to kill me when she wakes up in the afternoon.”

John knew at this point that the blank bits of his recollection were caused by his PTSD, and there was no doubt he had nightmares all night long.

“I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“My nightmares. You couldn’t sleep because of me.”

“Don’t be silly John. I rarely sleep anyway.”

“That’s a shame, because I really want to go back to sleep now. I was hoping you’d join me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but moved to remove his jacket and shoes, then going under the blanket and cuddled up to John.

“Get some sleep.”

“Mmmhh…” Sherlock hummed as he fell asleep within seconds.

John chuckled. “Rarely sleep my arse.”


	16. The Guilty Flee With No One Chasing Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft speaks crazy languages...
> 
> And this chapter you will find out how Mycroft found Bryn in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to popular demand, Bryn's POV will not be terminated! I've figured out a system. I hope it's obvious enough when POV's switch!

**### ### Author’s POV ### ###**

The day after Shan was found dead, Mycroft called had his team called in for a briefing. Only one person was missing.

“Where’s Ben?” Mycroft asked Q in his office. Q was enjoying a glass from Mycroft’s hidden whisky stash in front of the fireplace. His face fell slightly when Mycroft asked that question.

“He’s a little occupied. Can’t get him out. The web’s got him tied up nice and proper, running useless errands.” Q felt that something was wrong, as if they knew he was a spy, but with no actual threats made to Ben, he can’t pull him out for no reason.

“I know what you’re thinking. When shit hits the fan, pull him out pronto.”

“You don’t say  _ shit _ . Something’s up.”

Just as Mycroft opened his mouth, someone knocked on his door. He gave the permission to enter and Anthea came in, followed by Bryn and Q’s assistant, Douglas.

“Sherlock’s in Belarus. I’ve thrown a case in his path and as expected, he lapped it up happily.” Anthea reported quickly and stood by Mycroft’s side.

“Moriarty followed?” Mycroft asked.

A soft gasp was heard in the room. Douglas, who had only been Q’s assistant for two years, was unaware that Moriarty is back. He had heard of that name and read reports of that man. The things Moriarty did was terrifying for Douglas to even read, and now he’s part of the team who will be facing the spider.

“Yes. Until yesterday we had no idea how Moriarty looked like, but now we have enough to point towards this man.” Anthea said while distributing a thin folder. Inside the folder was a grainy picture of a man, and some basic information.

When Sherlock left the day before, John was under additional security even Bryn did not know about. Anthea had managed to narrow down their Moriarty suspect to four people, and one of them was definitely the spider himself.

“Moriarty isn’t the type to hide in the deep shadows and control his henchmen like puppets. He hides in the light, in obvious places people would never expect a criminal mastermind to be in, like a bartender, or barista.”

Bryn’s eyes widened when he saw the picture. He recognised the man as the bartender in that shit hole he and John goes all the time when Sherlock’s doing his mind palace spring cleaning. The service is shit, the beer is barely cold, and the place is filthy. The cheeseburger was what kept them going back again and again. They had became close with the bartender and Bryn felt a sting in his heart, disappointed that he may lose someone he thought was a friend.

“He’s gotten away with so much. Why show up now?” Bryn asked, only to receive a glare from Mycroft.

“Aaron, _ mae’r euog yn ffoi heb neb yn ei erlid. _ ” Mycroft said in perfect Cymric.

Bryn nodded, reminded of the lessons his grandfather gave him about this Welsh proverb.

 

**### ### Bryn’s POV ### ###**

My grandfather had always been in my life. Growing up in a small village meant everyone knew everyone. When my grandfather turned ninety, it was a big deal. The village had prepared a large celebration at the church with fireworks display at night.

And it became a massive deal when Q showed up.

 

I was only in my fifth year of service. I had saved up enough time to take six months off, returning to my village to spend time with my family. My grandfather was thrilled to see me.

“Son, tell me, what have you been up to?” He would ask.

“You know I can’t tell you. But I can show you pictures of some places I’ve been.”

“Forget the pictures. I’ve seen enough during my days. Tell me, the adventures. What exciting things have you done?”

He kept asking me the same question over, and over, and over… I was about to give in and tell him about my missions when I received a green light. It was the day of his birthday celebration. 

 

When a black Mercedes sedan drove up to my grandfather’s house, I was confused, then terrified, then even more confused when Q stepped out of the car.

“Hey, Q. What are you doing here?”

“I was invited.”

Q showed me the invitation to my grandfather’s birthday luncheon and shoved past me, straight towards the living room where my grandfather was.

“Oh, Quentin! You made it!”

“Maddoc! You look wonderful, dear sir.”

“Of course. I still use that cucumber blend you’ve taught me. Supple skin, yes?”

“Looks like you have to teach your grandson a thing or two before you hit hundred, eh?” Q laughed and patted me on the back, then continued chatting away with my grandfather about how Q’s dogs are doing.

Imagine how confused I was when Q and my grandfather conversed about skin care as if they’ve known each other for years.

 

Later that evening as I sat in front of the fireplace with Q and my grandfather, they smoked a pipe while telling me stories about how they knew each other, and the stories when he was in service.

“Did you really not know your grandfather was my boss? And Mister Holmes’, mind you.”

I shook my head. “Was that how Mister Holmes found me?”

“I was fifteen, and the previous quartermaster’s assistant when Maddoc was still M, and Mister Holmes was still an agent. You came highly recommended. Mallory took over when your grandfather retired, then Mister Holmes was next in line. He still keeps in touch with us, and sent me a map you drew for the local council covering the perimeter along Alon Brefi. It was really impressive for a thirteen year old…”

“Twelve, I was twelve.”

“Right. Well, your grandfather here single-handedly ended Operation Julie.”

“Hmm,” my grandfather hummed while inhaling a puff on his smoking pipe, “those were exciting days. Only your grandmother knew why we settled in this small forsaken town...”

Operation Julie was an investigation into the production of LSD by two drug rings during the mid-1970s. The operation resulted in the break-up of one of the largest LSD manufacturing operations in the world, with the street value equivalent to £570 million today.

“... and I retired after the 26th of March, 1977, right here in Llanddewi Brefi, Wales.” My grandfather ended the story while clearing his smoke pipe.

“Oh, by the way, your grandfather’s clearance is way higher than yours, so feel free to share your missions with him. Away from others, of course.” Q said as he got up to get another drink.

“All that excitement is well, but always remember, my dear child,  _ mae’r euog yn ffoi heb neb yn ei erlid.  _ Let your conscience guide you. Guilt is the parent of fear. Our conscience creates the pursuer that ought to be there even when he is not there.”

  
“Aaron, mae’r euog yn ffoi heb neb yn ei erlid.”  _ The guilty flee with no one chasing them _ , Mycroft said to me. I knew what he was implying, and I hoped he was right. If Moriarty has left his lair to hunt, it could be any number of reasons, but it would always be driven by one thing - paranoia - the existence of a pursuer who does not exist.


	17. John's Wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when Sherlock is away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings! If you are still reading this fic, BIG THANK YOU!
> 
> I will be taking a one month break from this fic (after chapter 20) to work on another one I'm co-authoring with TheLadyofMusic. Check it out if you like parent!lock and some pregnancy drama.  
> [An Unexpected Case](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14390913)

**### ### Author’s POV ### ###**

In the meantime, Sherlock was in Minsk, visiting a man who claimed to be innocent of killing his girlfriend. Sherlock knew this man was trying to plead insanity, and knew that this was one of Mycroft’s doing. He only went because Mycroft wouldn’t have done it for no reason. He had done it to have Mycroft owe him a favour.

It was one of those cases where there was only one side of a story. The fact that Bewick (the accused) fell into Mycroft’s radar was the fact that he worked for a large criminal organisation. Sherlock saw it all, except which criminal organisation.

Leaving Bewick out to be hung, literally, Sherlock left the prison and hopped on the first train to Paris. There was a weather condition en route, halting all train services and it was another day before there was a train to London.

 _‘Why didn’t I bring John along for this?’_ Sherlock thought to himself while fishing for his mobile. He flopped onto the hotel bed and sent John a text while mumbling to himself about how boring this trip was.

 **  
** **Remind me John, why aren’t you here? -SH**

 **Because I’ve got work!** **  
** **And someone has to pay the bills.**

**You don’t need to work. It’s mundane. -SH**

**You can spend my money for bills. -SH**

**What money do you think you have?**

**You meant Mycroft’s money?**

**We need to start charging clients perhaps?**

**How is London? I heard it’s the flu season. -SH**

**Are you treating stuffy noses and headaches? -SH**

**Yup. Plenty of stuffy noses to go around.**

**You’re not going to answer my question** **  
** **about the money, aren’t you?**

 **Have you solved the case?** **  
** **When will you be back?**

**Day after tomorrow. -SH**

**I wish you were here. I miss you. -SH**

**I miss you too. Gotta go.** **  
** **Another kid with stuffy nose! xxxx**

 

_‘Signing off texts with kisses… how can someone like John be so enlightening and dull at the same time?’ Sherlock asked in his mind._

_‘Because you deserve my kisses all day and night.’ John in his mind palace popped up and responded._

**The bills will not pay themselves! xxxx**

Out of self-amusement, Sherlock tried to stifle a chuckle that ended up in a snort. “Of course the bills will pay themselves. That’s what Mycroft’s minions do…”

Yet again, there was no need for John to know that.

 

The day after tomorrow couldn’t arrive soon enough. John was a nervous wreck. He kept looking over at the clock on the mantle, wishing for time to pass. He closed his eyes and leaned back on the sofa, wishing Sherlock would call or text soon, otherwise he would go crazy. He heard his phone ping and his eyes snapped wide open.

It was a message from Sherlock.

**ETA 4 hours. See you soon. -SH**

Sherlock wasn’t going to be home for another four hours. How was he going to kill four hours? John picked up his phone and called Aaron.

“Baker Cab Company.” Bryn picked up the phone after one ring.

“Hey, Aaron. Got time for a pint?” John asked.

Bryn was just leaving Mycroft’s office after their briefing on Moriarty’s additional surveillance. Two agents were on the same train cabin as Sherlock, and Moriarty was two cabins away.

“Yeah, meet you at the local in fifteen?”

“Sure.” John hung up and went upstairs to change. He grabbed his brown jacket and headed down the street to the bar.

 

Bryn arrived just a minute before his fifteen was up, and found John happily discussing last night’s football match with the bartender - the same one who had been there, who was supposed to be Moriarty. It’s not possible for him to be here and on the train back from Minsk. He’s now on high alert. Since their briefing, he’s well aware of Moriarty’s disguises, and the man on the train could very well be a double.

“Hey, John!” Bryn clasped a hand on John’s shoulder and ordered himself a bitter. As the bartender walked away, Bryn took a good long look at his side profile to determine if he was the same guy from two weeks ago.

John noticed Bryn’s stares and wondered if he was interested in the man professionally or personally. He nudged Bryn’s elbow on the table and tapped out in morse - ‘Hot or suspicious’.

Bryn signalled to John that it was the second - suspicious. This was not the same man as before. From a distance he does look like the same bartender. To an untrained eye, he was undoubtedly George the bartender. But to Bryn, the map of veins on his face are different, as well as the curve of his lower lip. He nodded towards a table at the back and they both moved with their pints.

“That’s a really good double.” John commented as they sat.

“Yeah, you noticed too?”

“Kinda. His accent’s slightly off, and George wiped the bar after serving every pint. This one doesn’t. Routines can be learned but habits takes a lot more effort.”

“We’ve been wondering if someone’s following you and Sherlock…” John raised an eyebrow and before he could ask if Sherlock was alright, Bryn knew the question was coming and answered it, “yes Sherlock is quite alright. We have agents in the same train cabin with him. He’s probably unaware of them. Last I heard he’s doing the mind palace thing and grinning like an idiot.”

“I know. He’s in my wing in his mind palace.” John smiled. “I bet he’s thinking about what we did--”

Bryn raised a hand and stopped John from continuing, “don’t want to know what he’s thinking about then, thank you very much.”

  


Sherlock got home an couple of hours earlier than expected while John was out. He looked around and quickly concluded that John was having a pint with Aaron, _or whatever his real name is_ , Sherlock’s mind supplied.

“Bored.” Sherlock said to Billy the skull. “Do you know if John would be home soon? Of course you don’t.” With a huff, he went into his bedroom and changed into something more comfortable, then flopped on his bed, face buried in the pillow John slept in. He missed John, deeply. The urge of cuddling up to his doctor was so strong, he needed something stave it off while John was out.

His jumpers. They were still upstairs.

He ran up the stairs into John’s bedroom and opened John’s cupboard. He stood in front of the open cupboard, measuring the space inside.

“More than enough space.” He said to himself, and rearranged John’s jumpers around, then slowly stuffed himself into the cupboard. Surrounded by John’s jumpers, he felt at ease and snuggled deeper, until something hard nudged against his coccyx.

He knew what it was without touching or looking at it.

It was John’s gun. _BINGO!_

 

Down the street, John and Bryn were waiting for their burgers when Bryn’s phone vibrated with a special text alert.

**SH found JW’s gun. Might wanna let him know? -Q**

“Uh, John? You might want to go home now.”

“What’s happening?”

“Sherlock’s home.”

Looking down at his phone, he saw the time. Sherlock was supposed to be back in another two and a half hours, and there was no text message from Sherlock. There must be something Sherlock wanted to do without having John around.

“Oh… what the fuck has he done now?”


	18. Mystrade Ahoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What really goes on in Mycroft's head. Who is J?  
> Would the Iceman break under pressure? After all, he is human.

Across town, Mycroft sat in his home office, trying to connect the dots between Black Lotus and Moriarty.  _ ‘What did I miss? How did I not notice their connection earlier?’  _ He kept asking himself. To find the answer to his own questions would be a painful process. He would have to recall memories he had locked away in a deep and dark corner of his mind castle.

He would have to recall J...

> _ Mycroft and J sneaked into a warehouse in Nanjing finding themselves trapped with no backup. They realised too late that their intel on Black Lotus was outdated. He should have known that they would change things when Soo Lin went missing upon arriving in London. Mycroft’s only saving grace was Code Falcon - if he was still alive when the timer ends. _
> 
> _ Code Falcon only applied to M’s safety. Once activated, he was to send a signal every ten minutes. If he’s one second off, or completely dropped from the grid, an extraction team would come for him. _
> 
> _ And only him. _
> 
> _ He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Jeremy behind. While Mycroft wanted to make it out alive together, Jeremy’s sole priority was to keep M alive, regardless of his own life. _

As Mycroft recalled their journey to the warehouse, slowly analysing every detail, his heart rate climbed steadily. The memories of Jeremy alive, running right next to him was too much. But for Sherlock’s sake, he had to endure the emotional pain of remembering the man he once loved.

> _ “Take me home, or kill me.” J whispered in Mycroft’s ear, his voice choking on blood slowly filling up his lungs. _
> 
> _ “Stay with me. You promised to move in when we get back.” Mycroft cupped his hands on J’s face and held their foreheads together. “Don’t die on me Jeremy. I need you. More than you think,” a stray tear fell from Mycroft’s cheek, “I love you.” _

Mycroft paused that scene in his head and rewinded it a few times, trying to make out the background noises of someone whispering, and perhaps trains running by? As he tried to concentrate on that whispered conversation, Jeremy’s voice drowned his mind like a tsunami.

> _ “I love you too, Mycroft. I really do. But I’m begging you, promise me, kill me if they get too close. I’d rather it be you than  _ **_-cough-_ ** _... the enemy, or the extraction team.” _

Mycroft was drowned in his memories. He was unaware that he had slid under his table, arms wrapped around himself in a fetal position. His heart rate was spiking, sending emergency alerts to his emergency contacts - Anthea and Greg.

> _ Mycroft held Jeremy close as the sun set, the basement they were in slowly losing light from the small crack on the wall, covering the room in darkness. All they had were the clothes on their back, and the cement floor started to chill his bones. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. The cold threatening to pull him into a deep sleep. _
> 
> _ A silent hiss woke Mycroft from a light doze. He saw a smoking canister rolling his way, and he knew they were drugging them. _
> 
> _ “Jeremy, wake up…” Mycroft knew if they were knocked out, they would be seperated for good this time, and he could not let that happen. _

 

Across town, DI Lestrade’s personal mobile screen lit up red and blared an alarm. He was at a crime scene standing next to Sherlock. “Oh god, no.” His face fell when the alarm went off in his pocket. His mobile was silent. There was only one application in his mobile that would go off in that mode.

Sherlock read his panicked face and deduced that Mycroft was in trouble. “Go. I’ll  _ try  _ to work with Donovan.” He said feigning annoyance, but shoved Lestrade towards the door.

“Sally! Take over!” Greg yelled from the door. “I’ll keep you updated.” He said to Sherlock before closing the door to the crime scene.

 

While Lestrade drove back home, breaking every traffic law, Mycroft was crawling out from under the table, and walked towards his bookshelf. There was a picture of a traditional house in China. It was built after the warehouse was torn down, the place where Jeremy was buried. Mycroft turned the picture frame and the bookshelf opened into a panic room. Subconsciously, he knew he was vulnerable to be out in the open. He moved into the panic room by muscle memory and years of conditioning.

> _ “It’s over love. You have to do it. They can never take me alive, please.” Jeremy begged. _
> 
> _ “Jeremy...” Mycroft pulled out a needle laced with poison from the sole of his shoe and pierced Jeremy’s femoral artery. “You’ll always have a place in my heart...” _

Greg was punching in the security code to the main door when Anthea showed up punching in a code, overriding all security systems. They ran into Mycroft’s office and Anthea realised the picture was turned on it’s side.

“He’s in the panic room.” She ran to the room next door to reactivate the door.

When it opened, Greg pushed himself through and found Mycroft on the floor, sobbing in a fetal position. His eyes were wide open, staring into nothing.

> _ “Mycroft. Stay alive...” Jeremy barely mumbled before he fell slack in Mycroft’s arms. _
> 
> _ The last thing he remembered doing was checking J for a pulse, swiftly snapping his neck as part of the protocol, taking J’s ring from his finger, wearing it, then falling into darkness himself. _

J’s ring now sits on the third finger of his right hand. It was melted and recast, engraved inside with the date Jeremy died by his hands.  _ ‘It was either dying by my hands or suffering in the hands of the Black Lotus. I couldn’t let him suffer.’  _ Mycroft told himself, like he did for the past eight years since that day.

 

“Mycroft, come back to me. You’re alright, I’m here.” Greg whispered into Mycroft’s ears. He scooped Mycroft into his arms, cradling him, rocking back and forth to soothe the wrecked man.

“No… Jeremy!” Mycroft screamed. He felt himself in the arms of someone warm, a beating heart thumping hard on his arm. He looked up and saw Jeremy with a pair of brown eyes.  _ ‘No, he had blue eyes… brown eyes… Gregory.’ _

As the tension in his shoulders eased, his senses slowly came back online. The smell of the old building was replaced by the smell of Greg’s sweat and cologne, the cold winter chills under his feet were no longer there, and the dark room suddenly became too bright. His eyes were sore from being kept open, and tears were slowly drying on his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, burying his face into Greg’s chest.

“Mycroft, you’re back. Oh god, you scared the shit out of me.” Greg carded his hand through Mycroft’s sweaty hair, curling from the moisture. He kept one hand at the back of Mycroft’s head, holding him tight in his embrace.

“Where am I?” Mycroft mumbled, frowning from the sudden sensory overload.

“You’re in the panic room. Your heart rate was through the roof and it triggered an alarm in my phone, and Anthea’s. How are you feeling?”

“Cold, and sticky. Muscles sore…”

“Yeah, a panic attack would do that to you. Let’s get you out of here first.”

Mycroft lifted his head, slowly pried an eye open to look at Greg, and tried to explain what happened, “Gregory, I… Jer… he’s...” but words caught in his chest, his heart ached just from saying part of J’s name.

“Hush. You don’t have to tell me now. Let’s talk about it later, hmm? We need to get you comfortable and get John in to take a look at you first. Make sure your blood pressure’s alright, as well as your eyes. They’re blood shot… Anthea’s right outside waiting for us.”

Mycroft nodded. He couldn’t find words to explain how he felt, neither did he had the energy to do it at that moment. Greg swiftly carried Mycroft out of the panic room, leaving Anthea following right behind.

“Anthea, could you turn off surveillance for an hour?” Mycroft asked when he was lowered onto the sofa at the corner of his room.

“Yes sir. I’ve also shuffled your schedule. You’re not expected until Monday next week. I’ll have additional physical security in two minutes.” She gave Mycroft a smile, full of concern, only to receive a reassuring smile in return. She turned towards Greg and commanded that he take good care of her boss before leaving them alone.

There was a beep that could be heard from within the ceiling, and that was when Mycroft knew it’s safe to drop his mask again. He slumped against Greg who was now seated next to him, burying his face in Greg’s chest.

“Gregory, please forgive me. I’m not the man you thought I was.” He felt tears rolling down his face, soaking Greg’s shirt. “Jeremy was… he was my right hand, as well as… my lover. And I… I had to end his life, with my bare hands. I am a selfish bastard. I killed him to save myself.”

Greg was stunned to hear that confession. A confession he never thought would have came out of Mycroft’s lips. A confession to murder. Greg knew Mycroft well enough to know that he had killed during his earlier days as an operative, but never even came close to scratching someone he cared about.

“Was it in a life or death situation?” Greg asked, and Mycroft nodded.

“He asked me, begged me not to let him be captured alive. I should have tried harder to protect him. He asked me to stay alive. And I did, but the pain… oh Gregory… the pain of carrying his death in my hands with no one to tell.”

“Would he had been better off alive?” Greg hoped Mycroft’s answer was no.

“He would’ve been skinned, or torn apart bit by bit. But I still took his life with my bare hands, Gregory.” Mycroft pushed himself away from Greg and held his own hands in front of his face, “my… bare hands. I would understand if you wish to leave now and never come back.”

Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft to pull him back, “no, you didn’t do it to save just your own life.” He pulled away slightly to hold Mycroft’s face, wiping Mycroft’s tears away with his thumbs, “you did it so he wouldn’t have to suffer in the hands of the enemy.”

“But...” Mycroft tried to interject, but Greg held his hand to cover Mycroft’s mouth.

“And by staying alive, you’re honouring his sacrifice. Remember that.” Greg waited for Mycroft to nod before he removed his hand.

“You’re the first person I’ve told. No one else, Gregory. I’m sorry to put this on you, but… I had to tell someone, I had to. I’m sorry it was you.” Tears threatened to fall, and Mycroft choked back a sob, “sorry that I won’t be able to offer you my whole heart.”

“Shhh… it’s alright, really. I’m glad it was me. We all have someone in our past, and I love you, including the people you once loved. You’re safe now and I’m not going anywhere.” Greg leaned back and pulled Mycroft closer, until they were flush from chest to toe. He cradled Mycroft’s neck in his hand, gently massaging it. “I promise won’t tell a soul, not even Anthea.”

Mycroft curled up against Greg and buried his face against his lover’s neck. “Thank you,” he breathed, and let himself go, eventually falling asleep.

 

Mycroft woke up feeling a deep ache in his bones, muscles loosened, his skin warm and smooth, as if he had spent an hour in the bath… then the night before came back to him. His panic attack, his mental breakdown, his confession to Gregory about Jeremy.

“Hey,” Greg sat up from the sofa across the room, putting down a book he had been reading and went to sit next to Mycroft on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. How long was I out?”

“Almost sixteen hours. After I pulled you out of the panic room, we had a chat on the sofa, do you remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you passed out. I got John in and he said you’re alright, just deep asleep. So I… uh… undressed you, put you in the bath… just you. I held your head above water and let you just float about. John said it would help when you wake up. Your muscles were really tense.”

“Hmm, that explains why I feel refreshed.” Mycroft gave Greg’s hand a squeeze, “thank you for taking care of me.”

“I know we haven’t crossed that line between us yet, but after what happened yesterday, I really want to.” Greg pulled Mycroft’s hand towards his lips. “Would you push through the paperwork?”

Mycroft knew what paperwork Greg meant. His divorce papers.

“Yes,” Mycroft’s heart was leaping with joy, “it’s been waiting for your green light all these while. Consider them done.”

“Then can I kiss you?”

“Yes, Gregory. Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally I have answers for WHO THE HELL IS J. I've never seen Mycroft as a cold hearted beast. He's actually a fragile sheet of ice.
> 
> Next chapter we will be starting TGG!


	19. A Bloody Head!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a bloody head in the fridge and all our boys want is to have sex on the sofa.
> 
> SMUT ALERT. We earned the Explicit rating - for reals this time.

The bar wasn’t too far away from home, and John stomped his way back. His blood pressure was rising for two reasons - one, because Sherlock has obviously done something of concern; two, because the git didn’t bother telling John he was home early.

John hated to admit that he was more pissed at the latter reason. Since they moved their relationship full steam ahead, John had been more tolerant towards Sherlock’s erratic behaviour. Last week, he stubbed his toe, and all Sherlock cared about was collecting his toenail when (not if - Sherlock had made sure of that by shifting the table a few centimeters to the left, ensuring John would stub the same toe again) it falls off for an experiment...

While contemplating how to start that discussion with Sherlock, he arrived downstairs and heard two gunshots. His heart almost dropped as he stormed in and straight upstairs, slamming the front door behind him. On his way up he heard four more shots. In the back of his mind, he was worried that Sherlock got into trouble again, but his eyes saw Sherlock holding his barely legal handgun, shooting at the wall.

“What the hell are you doing?” John yelled with fingers in his ears. He wasn’t too fond of being so close to gunfire in an enclosed space. Hurts his eardrums.

“Bored.” Sherlock said in a… bored tone.

John thought he heard Sherlock wrong. “What?” ‘ _ Bored? Are you kidding me? Bored and you are shooting-- _ ’ John’s thoughts were cut off when Sherlock shouted “Bored!” and jumped up from his chair, then played cowboy with the smiley face on the wall.

“Don’t know what’s got into the criminal classes,” Sherlock commented when John came to disarm him, removing the bullets and hiding the gun in a small box on the work table. “Good job I’m not one of them.”

_ ‘What the hell does that mean?’ _ John thought, but the words that came out of his mouth were different. “So you take it out on the wall?”

“Oh, the wall had it coming.” With a dramatic flop, Sherlock landed on the sofa.

_ ‘Ah, damn. He’s going into a sulk,’  _ John thought, and in an attempt to change the subject, he asked the first question that came to his mind. “How was Belarus?”

“Open and shut domestic murder,” they both knew Sherlock was lying, “not worth my time.”

“Oh, shame. Anything in? I’m starving.” John saw the mess in the kitchen and wondered how Sherlock had managed to mess it all up in less than two hours. “Supposed to get something to eat with Aaron,” John opened the fridge and closed it back almost immediately. He rubbed palm on his face, thinking that his eyes were playing tricks on him, so he opened it again to take a good look, which he immediately regretted. 

“It’s a head. It’s a severed head in our fridge!”

“No thanks, just tea for me.” Sherlock answered nonchalantly.

“No, there’s a head in the fridge.”

“Yes?”

“A bloody head!”

“Where else was I supposed to put it? You don’t mind, do you?” Sherlock glanced over and saw a huffing John, his face obviously projected shock and a little bit of anger.

“Please tell me you didn’t…” John thought about what words to describe ‘kill a man to get the head’. Would  _ harvest _ be right? Or perhaps  _ acquire _ ?

Sherlock read the pained look on John’s face and body language. He gave John an answer before the doctor would self-combust. “Got it from Bart’s morgue. I’m measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.”

“Right. You do realize that your experiment is flawed? There’s an extensive biochemical change due to lack of circulating oxygen, altered enzymatic reactions, cellular degradation, and cessation of anabolic production of metabolites.”

“You continue to surprise me, John Watson.” Sherlock raised his arms, eyes begging John to go closer. The doctor moved in and threw himself on top of Sherlock on the sofa.

“And you’re an idiot who keeps forgetting I’m a doctor.” He gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek and snuggled his face onto the crook of his neck.

“My doctor.” Sherlock turned his head to face John’s and returned the kiss in fervour, “my soldier,” he whispered against John’s lips when they broke apart to breathe, “you remind me of emotions I’ve hid away.”

“And you constantly remind me I’m no longer eighteen.” John replied with a grin while grinding his stiff front on Sherlock’s thigh. “You constantly turn me on, Sherlock. The way you…” He moaned when Sherlock pushed his thigh up against his erection, “the things you do to me, Sherlock Holmes…”

A piece of John’s brain reminded him that their living room was monitored. “Hang on,” he told Sherlock who pouted at the loss of John’s body against his. John hopped over to his jacket where his mobile was. He sent a quick text to Aaron -  **Turn off the cameras NOW!!!** \- before he went back to Sherlock.

John let his weight sink onto Sherlock and the sofa. Their lips met again, this time with a lot more tongue and nibbling. When he heard his mobile beeped with his text message tone, he just assumed that Aaron had received his message and complied. He can’t be bothered if they were going to watch him and Sherlock fuck on the sofa.

He pulled away from Sherlock’s lips to kiss his lover on his neck while his hands undressed Sherlock from his dressing gown and undershirt. He sat up, straddling Sherlock’s hips, palms rubbing all over Sherlock’s naked torso.

“Gorgeous. You are an absolutely stunner.” John said breathily. As his fingertips brush past Sherlock’s nipple, they latched on and twisted the sensitive nubs gently.

Below him, Sherlock’s breath caught. His head was tilted back, and a loud moan escaped his lips. John leaned forward without releasing his nipples and licked from Sherlock’s collarbone, up his neck to his earlobe. He nibbled it and moaned along with Sherlock as the detective’s hips push up against John’s prick over and over.

“John… hurry up...”

“What do you want, bossy?”

“I can’t… just… lift your hips up a little.” Sherlock’s hands flew down to take off his trousers and pants the moment John shifted. His cock twitched against his stomach when it was released from the confines of his pants. “And you’re overdressed for this occasion.”

John stood up just long enough to strip himself off of every article of clothing. There was no time for teasing. They’ve been apart for a few days and with a relationship as new as theirs, it seemed longer than seventy-two hours.

Sherlock stayed on his back while John stripped, slowly stroking his own cock while keeping eye contact with John. When he smeared a bead of precum around the head, he let out a long whimper.  _ Too close, _ he thought, and reached lower to pull his testicles down, staving off an orgasm.

“God, Sherlock…” John came closer, bent over and licked the head of Sherlock’s cock, tasting the salty bitter fluid now leaking profusely. He grabbed the base of the length to help Sherlock pull back from the edge, only to bring him back to the edge just from licking his frenulum. John’s tongue was hot, wet and stiff, applying the right amount of pleasure, in between ‘a little bit more’ and ‘too much’.

“Ohhhhh John!” Sherlock moaned, “you’re making me come…” He felt a gentle tug on his testicles and the hot wet pleasure had disappeared. Overwhelmed by the multiple rounds of edging, Sherlock had closed his eyes, head hanging off the side of the sofa. When he felt the pool of heat retreat from his groin, he risked opening his eyes and looked down. The view was glorious. John’s lips were glistening with saliva and precum, eyes wide and dilated with lust, his hand holding Sherlock’s stiff prick at the base, the other hand gently tugging Sherlock’s balls.

“Alright?” John asked.

Sherlock felt John releasing his sensitive bits, then opened his eyes to find John straddled on top of him. John’s cock was rubbing against his stomach, his own stiff cock hidden from his view, thrusting between John’s arse cheeks as John rocked back and forth, “that was amazing, John. Fucking brilliant.”

As John continued to grind down against Sherlock, the detective felt his cock catch on something against John’s arse. He grabbed both cheeks and spread them apart, fingers brushing around and found a flat surface.

“Are you wearing a…  _ erm…  _ an anal plug?”

“Knew you were coming back today, didn’t want to wait.”

Sherlock grabbed the flat surface and pulled the anal plug out, gently, noticing the size of that monstrosity which was about the same girth as his cock but shorter. Raising an eyebrow in question to John, the response he got was a Cheshire grin and a wink. That made Sherlock drop the plug on the floor and moved to fuck John with two fingers. The lube inside slowly leaked out, a thin layer coating his fingers. With the same hand, he coated his prick in the warm lube and guided it against John’s tight hole.

“John. May I?” Sherlock’s breath was starting to stutter.

John moaned and nodded against the crook of Sherlock’s neck when he felt the tip of Sherlock’s hard cock push against his hole. He pushed himself lower, allowing the tip of Sherlock’s cock to breach the opening. He paused, waiting for his muscles to relax before pushing down a little further, allowing Sherlock’s cock to sink in deeper. It burned a little, but the lube he had worked in this morning eased the way. 

When Sherlock sank all the way into John, he could feel John’s muscles contracting slightly. He was breathing deep and not moving. Sherlock rubbed his hands along John’s back, holding his doctor close.

“Does it hurt?” Sherlock asked after sixty-eight heartbeats.

“Yeah, burns a little. Just… give me a minute.” John whispered.

“Of course, anytime you’re ready. It already feels so good. I don’t think I can last more than five minutes once we start moving.”

“Five minutes is more than enough.” John groaned when he shifted from his knees onto his feet, the head of Sherlock’s cock pushing against his prostate. “Oh god, I might come without touching myself.”

And without waiting for Sherlock to respond, he raised himself slowly and dropped back down in one swift motion, allowing gravity to work in their favour. Pushing down hard, John made sure Sherlock’s cock constantly pressed hard against his bundle of nerves. Their moans and sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the flat. 

Sherlock held John’s hips in place and started thrusting up fast and deep. John stayed in place, his arms wrapped under Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock anchored himself on his feet and shifted slightly. He stayed in the same position when John let out a high pitched moan.

“Oh god, Sherlock, right there. Yes! Fuck me right there!” John shouted into Sherlock’s shoulder. His mouth found a spot between Sherlock’s neck and left shoulder. It latched on and his muffled whimpers spurred Sherlock on.

“I’m close John. So close…”

John’s cock was trapped between their bodies, rubbing against Sherlock’s stomach with every thrust, slick with his own precum. The stimulation on his cock and prostate was so perfect.

“I’m coming, Sherlock… love…  _ mmpphhhh _ !” John was loud when he came, and for that split second, he had forgotten that Sherlock’s skin was in between his teeth. He bit down hard, riding the wave of the most brilliant orgasm he ever had. 

Sherlock was still thrusting into John’s tight wet hole when John came. The doctor’s orgasm made his muscles contract. It was so tight, Sherlock came after a few more thrusts. But John was still coming, and the contracting muscles were starting to hurt his cock. He stayed still, his cock still hard from the stimulation, twitching against John’s bundle of nerves.

“Oh god, that was fucking amazing,” John shivered when Sherlock pulled out, brushing past his nerves. He yelped when he was suddenly manhandled onto his back, with Sherlock on top of him.

“I agree wholeheartedly.” Sherlock said and smiled when he briefly kissed John then blindly reached his hand to the floor and found his undershirt. He wrapped it around his hand and reached down to clean himself briefly before moving to clean John’s stomach. He flipped John to his side and spreaded his arse cheeks apart just in time to see his cum leaking out of the puffy hole. His thumb found its way to smear it around the entrance and John was clearly relaxing against that sensation. When Sherlock’s thumb pushed in a little, John winced and pulled away.

“Sore.” John said and buried himself deeper into the back of the sofa.

Sherlock apologised and wiped away the remnants of cum and lube from John’s arse. He threw the stained shirt back with their pile of discarded clothes, grabbed his dressing gown to cover both their bottoms then snuggled into John’s back.

John turned around to face Sherlock, his arms around Sherlock’s waist to keep him from falling off the sofa, and his legs tangled in between Sherlock’s. His face was right in the spot where he bit Sherlock, and he left an angry teeth mark along with bruises around it.

“Sorry about that. Got a little carried away.” John whispered and placed kisses around the bite mark.

“I like it.” Sherlock whispered into John’s hair, “I would show them off when it isn’t cold out.”

“I’ll remember that. Keep you marked all the time.”

Sherlock hummed in contentment and hugged John tighter, slowly drifting off into his mind palace to store the earlier experience.

**First time on the sofa** was carved onto a plaque on a new door in John’s wing.

And while Sherlock did that, John fell asleep, relaxed in the embrace of the love of his life.


	20. Batman and Robin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of "sofa sex". Bryn and the team caught an eyeful of John's behind... and Bryn's only interested in Anthea's.

**### ### Bryn’s POV ### ###**

 

“Uh, John? You might want to go home now.” I said without looking up from my screen.

“What’s happening?”

“Sherlock’s home.”

John looked at his phone. He had this look that was a combination of frustration, fear and… love. 

“Oh… what the fuck has he done now?” He groaned and left immediately.

 

I didn’t have to leave the bar to monitor the situation in 221B. Besides, we had ordered what I consider the best cheeseburger in the world. Mind you, I have tried plenty of cheeseburgers during my days as Aaron.  [ This cheeseburger ](https://www.esquire.com/uk/food-drink/reviews/g9570/londons-best-burgers-delicious/) though… We’re talking smoked pork belly, smothered in red onions and tangy kohlrabi pickle. Then there’s the cheese-covered beef patty – substantial and juicy, without ever tipping into brioche bun-soaked albatross territory. To be honest, the side portion of fried potatoes is worth the calories, alone. 

You’re welcome.

 

While I waited for my burger  _ (burgers because John had left without his!) _ I had a feeling things weren’t going to go down well at their flat. Pulling out my mobile, I found a thread of messages between  Q and the team in a private chat group.

**[Private Group: Q, A, B, C, L]** **  
** **== Q invited you to this Private Group ==** **  
** **Q: SH found JW’s gun.** **  
** **C: Whoooppppssssieeeee!** **  
** **C: Where was it? He’s hid it so well.** **  
** **L: Cupboard.** **  
** **A: What gun?** **  
** **Q: Very good A. You’re still due for your eval.** **  
** **Q: All of you, actually. Report in tomorrow at 1500.** **  
** **A: Damn it.** **  
** **A: Keep surveillance. M wants to be updated every 5 mins.** **  
** **Q: SH talking to skull.** **  
** **C: SH fiddling with a cigarette.** **  
** **Q: SH threw away the cigarette.** **  
** **C: SH checking on the saliva project.** **  
** **L: SH taking a toilet break.** **  
** **Q: SH dismantling the gun and reassembling.** **  
** **Q: SH released rounds on the wall. He’s playing cowboy with the wall! LOL!** **  
** **A: M not amused. Tells you to do your job properly.** **  
** **A: I’m picking up a lot of calls from neighbours to the police.** **  
** **A: Q! BLOCK THE DAMNED CALLS!** **  
** **Q: That was fun. My job isn’t that easy, is it?** **  
** **A: Not funny!** **  
** **C: JW is back! He’s pissed about the saliva project.** **  
** **L: Who wouldn’t? How can they live in that pig sty…?** **  
** **C: JW and SH, apparently.** **  
** **Q: Uh oh. They’re smooching…**

A few minutes after Q sent that last message, I received one from John.

**JW: Turn off the cameras NOW!!!**

I switched apps and looked at the surveillance footage. John and Sherlock were now plastered against each other on the sofa, and Sherlock’s top half was naked…

Closing the surveillance app, I fired a series of text to my surveillance team.

**[Group: 221]** **  
** **B: Q, switch off surveillance.** **  
** **B: They’re about to get freaky on the sofa.** **  
** **B: JW asked as a favour.** **  
** **B: Please.** **  
** **A: M approved. Please proceed.** **  
** **A: M not interested in the footage, but keep audio on to monitor in case of emergency.** **  
** **X2: Instructions received. Video surveillance is now off.** **  
** **X1: Audio surveillance active - not recording.** **  
** **A: B, keep an ear out for abnormalities.**

I took a deep breath of relief and saw my burgers coming my way. While the waiter walked over, I sent a quick text to John. I doubt he would see it until he emerges from Sherlock…

**Done. A little more warning next time, please.**

“Could you wrap this to go please?” I asked the waiter as he placed the plates on my table. When he raised an eyebrow and looked annoyed at my request, I felt the need to explain. “My friend had to leave and I couldn’t possibly finish both burgers,” I lied, I can and I will, “so I’ll just take them home for later.”

“Alright. Chef ain’t gon’ be happy, ya’know. He knows you blokes love the burgers and wants you to hav’em fresh…”

“Send him my apologies. I’ll be back sooner than you know it for a fresh one.”

 

As I walked into my flat with two best burgers in the world in my arms (yes I cradled them home like babies), I noticed someone in my flat. I couldn’t see them, but I can feel their presence.

“Boo!” And there she was, gloriously gorgeous as ever, sitting on my sofa - Anthea.

“And you couldn’t call?” I asked her sarcastically, dropping the burgers on the kitchen counter.

“I heard you have an extra burger, so I dropped by for it.” She stood and walked towards me… or so I thought. She was heading for the burgers.

“Nope. They’re both mine.” I became very protective of my burgers. I stood between them and Anthea and slapped her wrist when she reached out for one.

“Don’t make me put you on audio surveillance now.” The thought of listening to John and Sherlock have sex made me shiver. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against gay sex, in fact, I do enjoy prostate stimulation…

Too much information. Sorry.

It was the simple fact of listening in to two people making love that made me shiver, regardless their gender.

“Ugh…” I handed over one of the burgers. “Who is on it now?”

“Camden drew the short straw.” She answered and took a huge bite out of the burger, shoving some potatoes along with it.

“Want a drink? I have soda or beer.”

“Soda. Can’t drink on duty.”

“Since when we’re ever off duty?”

“Never.” She smirked, and my day was immediately brighter.

 

As we polished off the last of our chips, both our mobiles vibrated together on the table.

**[Private Group: Q, A, B, C, L]**

**Q: Someone is snoring. Should be safe to switch on surveillance now.** **  
** **Q: Any volunteers? B?** **  
** **A: We will check.** **  
** **Q: Who’s WE??? ;)**

“Hey! Come on Anthea! Why’d you volunteer us?”

“There’s no us. It’s just you. Go along now.”

 

The first thing I saw when I switched on video surveillance on my laptop was Sherlock and John still cuddling naked on the sofa with a dressing gown barely covering their bits.

Anthea came up behind me and looked over my shoulder, “hmm, John’s got a pretty nice behind.”

To say that I was shocked was an understatement. I picked up my phone immediately and texted the group.

**[Private Group: Q, A, B, C, L]**

**B: A’s checking out JW’s arse.** **  
** **Q: HAH! I knew it!** **  
** **Q: But he does have a nice arse.** **  
** **Q: Solid and soft, perky and strong.** **  
** **L: Tell me about it. I caught a glance at that fine specimen before B switched off video.** **  
** **C: Imagine him in his combats...** **  
** **C: Found one!** **  
** **_C sent an image [jhwcombats.jpg]_ ** **_  
_ ** **L: -NOSEBLEED-!!!** **  
** **Q: Brilliant use of resources. What else is on that file I wonder?** **  
** **M: Enough. Back to work.**

**_System: This group was deleted by an administrator. (Code:_ ** **_MHB055_ ** **_)_ **

“Seriously? Ratting us out to M?”

“It’s my job. Sue me.” She pulled away and headed for the door, “I’m needed back at the office. Call me if there’s anything.” She opened the door then winked at me, “thanks for lunch.”

Stunned. I was stunned. She winked at me… ANTHEA WINKED AT ME! It took me a few seconds to gather my senses back, but she was already gone.

Returning to the surveillance feed, there were no movements. I started to wonder if Sherlock had done something to still the video feed, but John started to stir, and Sherlock’s hand carded through his hair.

It was going to be a long long day…

 

**### ### Author’s POV ### ###**

 

The first thing John felt were fingers carding through his hair, massaging his head. It gave him a sense of comfort, of home. Next thing that he realised was how his limbs were tangled with Sherlock’s. His arms were wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, while Sherlock had one hand in his hair, the other was resting on his hip. When he opened his eyes, he saw Sherlock staring at the back of the sofa, hand still going through the same motion of petting his head.

Blissful was the right word to describe how John felt. But as much as he loves being in Sherlock’s arms like this, his bladder was against it. The few pints he had with Aaron earlier had gone through his digestive system and was begging to be released.

“Sherlock? Are you here?” John asked while he moved to sit up. He felt the skin on his back peel off the leather sofa and winced. “ _ Ugh _ , we’re never sleeping on the sofa naked, ever again.”

 

Sherlock was in his mind palace, trying to find a proper spot to renovate. John’s wing was getting larger by the day, and now he needed to put one more room in.

A very important room.

As he wandered around John’s wing, he noticed it wasn’t as organised as he would like it to be.  _ ‘Since John is asleep, I might as well take my time and reorganise.’  _ Then he did just that.

The repetitive motion of massaging John’s head was soothing. It was also helping John phase into REM sooner than usual. It was proven by comparing his breathing patterns from since the day John moved in, and obviously the absence of a nightmare.

He was almost done renovating John’s wing when he felt a mental earthquake.

“...on the sofa naked, ever again.” He heard John’s end of a sentence.

“Sorry, what?” A pair of curious eyes stared back at him.

“What were you doing up there?” John asked, tapping a finger at his forehead.

“Some renovations… Your wing was running out of rooms.”

Sherlock saw John’s eyebrows rose higher, and higher, until they were at its peak, creasing his forehead with layers like an English Bulldog sitting down.

“I have a… wing?”

“Of course. It’s now twenty percent larger than it was,” Sherlock glanced over at the mantle and looked at the clock, “six hours and seventeen minutes ago.”

“Right. That reminds me, I need the loo, urgently.”

 

John walked out of the bathroom refreshed, and he wrapped himself up with one of Sherlock’s fluffy bathrobe. Sherlock swore that he bought them, but John knew he had stole them back from the hotel in Paris. Who would buy French labelled bathrobes in London?

“I see you’ve written up the taxi driver’s case. A Study in Pink, nice.” Sherlock said when John walked out to the living room. He was now wearing his pajama bottom, still naked from the waist up and hanging loosely was the earlier discarded sleeping robe.

“Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone – there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?” An odd sense of pride was bubbling up within John’s heart, hoping that Sherlock had liked it.

“Erm… no.” And that shattered John’s little bubble.

“Why not? I thought you’d be flattered.” John walked over to Sherlock’s armchair and sat down.

Sherlock lowered the magazine he was flipping while John was in the bathroom and glowered at the blogger, reciting a sentence he read in John’s blog earlier. “Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.”

“Now hang on a minute,” John sat up straight and leaned forward, subconsciously preparing for a fight when Sherlock subtly accused him of insulting the detective’s mind, “I didn’t mean that in a…”

Sherlock interrupted John by raising his voice, “oh, you meant spectacularly ignorant in a nice way! Look, it doesn’t matter to me who’s Prime Minister, or who’s sleeping with whom…”

“Whether the Earth goes round the Sun…” John added.

“Not that again… it’s not important!”

“Not impor-- it’s primary school stuff. How can you not know that?”

“Well, if I ever did, I’ve deleted it.”

“Deleted it?”

“John,” Sherlock sat up and faced John, “listen, very carefully.” He pointed his head with one finger, “this is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful ... really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?”

John looked at Sherlock in disbelief. He tried to stop himself, but it was so absurd!

“But it’s the solar system!

“Oh, hell! What does that matter? So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn’t make any difference. All that matters to me is the Work. Without that, my brain rots.”

“And you have a wing for me, now twenty percent larger than,” John glanced up at the clock on the mantle, “six hours thirty seven minutes ago?”

Sherlock ruffled his hair with both hands in frustration, then glared at John. He did not see that comeback. He wasn’t expecting to address the matter so soon. John stood up and walked over to Sherlock, sitting right next to him. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s thigh, rubbing gentle circles.

“Because… you’re important to me, John. And you are part of the Work… without you, I’ll rot.”

That admittance made John’s heart swell. “And I refuse to be called your sidekick, or Robin, for any matter.”

“Why would I refer to you after a bird?”

“You genuinely have no idea who Batman and Robin are?”

“Does it matter?”

“No. No it doesn’t. All that matters is you.” John leaned closer and waited for Sherlock to turn his head. When he finally did, their eyes met, and John kissed Sherlock on the sofa, unwilling to let the detective go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you all know where this is going. While I do further character development between A & B, I will be taking a break from this fic for a month or so.
> 
> See you all soon! xx


	21. Mycroft's Dirty Legwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flat across the street goes 'boom!', Mycroft visits and graces upon Sherlock a pile of dirty legwork.

“Oh, sorry love!” Mrs Hudson sing-songed when she walked into John and Sherlock on the sofa, the doctor straddled on top of the detective. She looked around the flat and it was in a mess. “I’ve just tidied up this morning… have you two had a little domestic?”

“Domes-- no Mrs Hudson. If you consider brilliant sex on the sofa a domestic, then yes. We had a big _domestic_.” Sherlock responded while manhandling John off his lap and stalked to the kitchen.

“Bit not good, Sherlock!” John said and walked towards the door, helping Mrs Hudson carry their shopping bags towards the kitchen. She flashed the receipt at Sherlock, putting down a few items wherever she found space for it. As she placed down the last item, she noticed the eggs were forgotten, and Sherlock needed it to feed whatever that was in his petri dishes. He was about to go into a stroppy mood.

“I’ll go get them.” John sighed, grabbing his jacket and wallet, hurrying down the stairs.

“Ohhh… it’s a bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more.” She commented as she turned around from the kitchen towards the living room.

Sherlock walked past her towards the window and stared at John as he crosses the street, heading in the direction of Tesco.

“Look at that, Mrs Hudson. Quiet, calm, peaceful…” He took a deep breath, “isn’t it hateful?”

“Oh, I’m sure something will turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder. That’ll cheer you up!” She chuckled and headed towards the door.

“Can’t come too soon…”

“Hey! What’ve you done to my bloody wall?!” Mrs Hudson scolded when she spotted the wall with a yellow painted smiley face, a few bullet holes and plaster falling off. “I’m putting this on your rent young man!”

Sherlock grinned to himself, absolutely pleased with his handiwork while she stormed down the stairs. He paced around the living room and paused at where he was standing earlier when he shot the wall, recalling his favourite bits from earlier, enjoying the afterglow of sex. As he was about to turn and head back to the kitchen, an explosion went off from the building across his. The windows shattered and the blast pushed him forward onto the floor.

 

John was shopping, taking his own sweet time with selecting jams, milk, eggs… and while he was deciding which chocolate biscuit to purchase, he heard the telly from the checkout counter.

_“There’s been a massive explosion in central London. As yet, there are no report of any casualties and the police are unable to say if there’s any suspicion of terrorist involvement.”_

There was an odd feeling that John felt in his chest. Constricting, as if something had just happened. Out of curiosity, he glanced up and looked at the telly, and Speedy’s flashed across the screen with emergency services at its doorstep.

Sherlock.

John dropped the basket, eggs, milk and jars of jam shattered on the aisle. He ran out through the manned counters and dropped some cash on the counter.

“Sorry, I made a mess… SORRY!” He yelled while running out of Tesco, headed back to 221B, as fast as his legs can take him.

 

He yelled for Sherlock running up the stairs. Panic was rising in his throat as he prepared himself for a devastating scene - Sherlock on the ground, bleeding, or in a bag...

But what he saw was possibly the worst.

Sherlock Holmes, alive and well… and Mycroft Holmes sitting in his chair.

“Hello John.”

“I saw it on the telly, are you okay?” John went over to Sherlock and held the detective’s head in his hands, turning it left and right, checking for injuries. Sherlock had his violin in his hand, mindlessly plucking random notes. John pulled it out of his hands, placing it down slowly on the table.

“Me? What? Oh, yeah, fine. Gas leak, apparently.” He tilted his head up when John came back close to him, and they gave each other a chaste peck on the lips. “I’m fine, really.”

John sat on the arm of Sherlock’s chair and wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder, “scared the shit out of me, love.”

“Hmm…” Mycroft hummed across them.

“I can’t.” Sherlock said in response to the hum.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Mycroft retorted with an eyebrow raised at the both of them. **_I know what you’re up to Sherlock. You have nothing on. You can’t stay in and shag your good doctor seven ways to Sunday._ **

“Stuff I’ve got on is just too big. I can’t spare the time.” **_I can and I will. Dare me._ **

“Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance.” **_Someone is coming close to me. Too close for comfort._ **

“How’s the diet?” **_Too close to you, or Lestrade?_ **

“Fine.” **_Me._ ** “Perhaps you can get through to him, John.” **_Might be too close to you and your doctor as well._ **

“What?” John was now confused. It seemed to him like the brothers were having a separate conversation from the words that were coming out of their lips.

“I’m afraid my brother can be very intransigent.” **_Don’t be stubborn, Sherlock. It’s for all of us._ **

“If you’re so keen why don’t you go investigate it?” **_It’s someone who can’t know your involvement, isn’t it, brother mine?_ **

“No, no, no, no.” **_Don’t be a smart arse._ ** “I can’t possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so…” **_Yes, someone who can’t know that I’m on their tail._ **

Sherlock was interested. Absolutely interested. **_Korean elections, really? John’s not stupid._ **

“Well, you don’t need to know about that, do you?” **_That’s for the enemy eavesdropping. Losing your grip?_ ** “Besides, a case like this requires,” Mycroft frowned slightly in disdain, “legwork.” **_And I’m getting older, brother mine. It’s too close._ **

The younger Holmes squirmed when he heard Mycroft’s tone. Something was coming towards them, and with Mycroft behaving like that, he knew things were going to get very ugly, very soon.

“Where’s the grocery, John? Did you break all the eggs and milk?” Sherlock asked to distract himself.

“And jam, Sherlock. It was the eggs, milk and jam.”

Sherlock took another look over John and whined, “oh, yes of course.”

“How… you both can do that… deduction thing? Oh, never mind.” John gave up trying to ask how they knew when he noticed splashes of milk on the edge of his trousers and stains on his shoes.

“Sherlock’s business seems to be booming since you and he became…” Mycroft looked between John and Sherlock, seemingly looking for an answer, “partners. What’s he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine.”

“I’m never bored. He’s fantastic.” John answered casually, wanting to rid of Mycroft so he could properly look at Sherlock in his own chair. Never did he realize that he became so attached to his chair, just a little shy of his attachment to Sherlock.

“Good. That’s good, isn’t it.” **_Sherlock. Seems like you’re ‘fantastic’._ ** Mycroft stood up and made his move to leave, but before walking away, he handed a file to Sherlock, only to receive some harsh words thrown at him through his younger brother’s eyes.

**_Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, minor official._ **

**_Shut up. Take the case. It’ll do all of us good._ **

**_Only if it comes too close to me. You have your agents. Get them to do your dirty legwork._ **

Mycroft gave up negotiating with Sherlock. In his entire career, he never backed down from a negotiation until he has won. He always wins, except when it comes to his own blood. His baby brother.

“Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. Civil servant. Found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in.” Mycroft handed the file over to John instead.

While John probed further as to why Mycroft was so interested in this case, Sherlock felt a tad bit prouder than he should with his doctor’s line of reasoning.

 **_Not a complete idiot after all._ ** Mycroft shot it as a glance to Sherlock while the younger only chuckled in response.

“You’ve got to find those plans Sherlock.” **_You have to find the person behind all this._ ** “Don’t make me order you.” **_Don’t let it be too late._ **

“I’d like to see you try.” And being the stubborn shithead he is, Sherlock meant exactly what he said.

“Think it over. Goodbye John, see you very soon.” He shook John’s hand, leaving the couple in their flat, one annoyed, the other absolutely befuddled as to what went down in the past ten minutes.

As confused as John was, he was happy that his chair and flat was now free of one Mycroft Holmes, and he could return to his own chair instead of the uncomfortable arm on Sherlock’s.

 

Mycroft was walking down the stairs when he texted Bryn and Lestrade.

**To Bryn: Bring the envelope for SH to DI Lestrade. -M**

**To Gregory: Case en route. Call SH. xx -MH**

The case had nothing to do with Andrew West directly, but it was pointing to the same person - Moriarty.

 

Upstairs, Sherlock was desperately trying to redirect John’s attention away from his rivalry with Mycroft. Thankfully, Lestrade called Sherlock immediately after receiving a text from Mycroft.

“Lestrade. I’ve been summoned. Coming?” Sherlock walked towards the door and asked John without looking.

“If you want me to.”

“Of course.” The consulting detective picked up his coat and turned to face John, “I’d be lost without my blogger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Will start posting chapters every fortnight. If you're still reading, thank you!


	22. The Stars Align

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those people who were strapped in bombs were not random strangers, apparently. Bryn experienced his first loss after coming back.

**### ### Bryn’s POV ### ###**

Greenwich pips. 221C. Potential explosions, and the case Sherlock Holmes never solved as a child. This was someone who knew Sherlock, and was playing a long game. One who centered their entire criminal career building blocks surrounding Sherlock Holmes, to keep them tangled together, to entrap, and eventually devour.

Unfortunately, all our personal lives were also caught in it.

 

We intercepted a package delivered to New Scotland Yard, addressed to Sherlock. When the phone was x-rayed, we had received intelligence from our correspondence that it was the same phone from Sherlock’s first publically ‘blogged’ case. Our guy on the inside had to repackage the phone, but who the fuck uses an iridium nibbed Parker Duofold fountain pen? And who the fuck knows these things?

Apparently Q did, understandably, because he has a passion for the craft itself. And it seemed like Holmes junior did too. How would he (they, if you include M) decide what would eventually be useful? Someone like myself and Anthea would deem information about the make and mark of a pen useless...

 

We also bugged the phone (obviously) when we inspected it. It would be moronic of us to not expect a call. And the moment we were alerted to an incoming call on that pink phone, there was a whirlwind of action within Q-Branch. Anthea and I walked right in the middle of it, holding burgers and chips to find Q… frantic.

“He’s never like this…” I said to Anthea, then turned to Q, clasping a hand on his shoulder, “hey buddy, what’s going on?”

“My… sister. Jesus. Whoever this sick fuck is… he will  **pay** .” Q was clenching his jaw and fists while watching surveillance live on a lady who appeared to be reading from a pager, sitting in the driver’s seat of her car, in the middle of a busy parking lot. I withdrew my hand and took a step back. I’ve never seen Q  **not** chirpy, and frankly, it was terrifying.

_ “I’ve sent you… a little puzzle… just to say hi.”  _ Q’s sister said while crying.

“Jules…” He caressed the screen where she was being monitored, “they’ve strapped her with explosives. I have a team down there, tracing the sniper.” Q explained.

Anthea dropped the takeaway next to Q and sternly mouthed “eat”, then paced up towards an empty terminal and started furiously typing, triangulating a location for the team. If Q had been here since we first intercepted the package, he must have been working for more than eighteen hours now.

“Two blocks south. Clear line towards her. Team Delta move out now.” She ordered. Swivelling around the chair, she stared at Q, to the food, and back at Q. “Eat! Can’t have you pass out from hunger saving Juliet, hmm?” She barked it out like an order. It might have been the worse time, but I have never been so turned on by someone barking orders. Q complied, and pulled out chip after chip, then the burger, shoving as much as he could into his mouth.

_ ‘Focus, Bryn Driscoll!’  _ I snapped at myself. There was already enough going on. The last thing we need is a distracted agent, thrown off by another agent...

“She just said twelve hours for Sherlock to solve the puzzle. B, head down and get someone to stay on those two.” Anthea tossed an earpiece towards me and winked. It was one of those rare ones we get to use, in direct communication with M.

 

While I was heading towards St. Bart’s where John and Sherlock are, all we discussed about was how Moriarty found Q’s sister. We are all off-the-grid, and our families live without us, on paper that is. We are supposed to be untraceable. But it seems like we have a…

“We have a mole.” M said. So far, it was only Anthea and I in the discussion. I wasn’t aware that he was listening in the entire time.

“Great minds do think alike, sir.”

“Hmm.” M made a non-committal sound, “both of you, meet me in twenty. Anthea, bring Q. We are executing plan B.” 

And we were on. While John and Sherlock was kept occupied by Moriarty’s little game, we had to stay ahead of him to wrap this up. If Q’s sister was caught, there would definitely be more. We were looking at a countdown.

 

Nine hours later, we were done setting up plan B. During that time, Q’s sister was disarmed by our bomb disposal team. She was placed under protective custody and brought to Q-Branch immediately to be reunited with Q. From what I heard later, Q smashed a ton of equipment while watching the bomb disposal unit work and swore that they would all need to attend another hundred hours of training after that day.

 

Four pips was Samuel’s brother, strapped in explosives and traced by a sniper, just as Q’s sister was, in the middle of a busy crossing. As Samuel was still missing in action, someone in Q’s team recognized him and alerted us. Honestly, we were not surprised then. We knew he was coming in on us. 

Sherlock managed to solve the case of Mister Monkford relocating to Colombia in time. Our team was already on standby to disarm the lad, and he too was shipped off to join Q’s sister in Q-Branch.

Samuel made contact when he received news of his brother being held hostage. We had to strip him off his undercover status and back into the field with me on the next mission - three pips. We almost gave up when the call came. For the first time in a very long time, M was personally taking over operations. No one knew who the old lady was, until Anthea’s ice-cold facade shattered in front of myself and M.

It was her mother.

One hour to go, and Sherlock was still rushing around town. In the meantime, we’re busy relocating people from the building while Q monitored all surveillance in the area after disarming the sniper. If Moriarty was a little less occupied with playing with Sherlock, we wouldn’t have gotten away with it.

Imagine this with me - with sixty seconds to go, switching out an old lady who’s blind, filled with fear, strapped in… well, enough explosives to blow me into bits, with a two day old corpse of one of Moriarty’s men in disguise…

I didn’t know what was scarier - dropping the explosives or Anthea’s mother.

Or losing a friend.

 

As I ran out of the building with Anthea’s mother in my arms, my heart tightened, my stomach churned, my mind went blank. All I could think of was how he always drew the shorter straw since I came back to service - the undercover work, the cleanups, and now he had to deal with the explosives while I sneak the old lady out of the building.

_ ‘There is no such thing as coincidence.’ _ M’s voice echoed in my head.

Fuck.

Samuel was the partner that pushed me to my limits. He was my sparring partner, my buddy, my team mate, my friend. The only one who brushed past death with me. The one who was with me while I climbed back from hell. We never knew much about each other, but from what I know, he had nothing much to lose. His brother was all he had, albeit estranged.

“He was so…” Anthea’s mother started to talk as I placed her in the car, “his voice…” Then I realized she was still talking to Sherlock through an earpiece.

_ “No, no, no, no. [inaudible]. Nothing!”  _ I heard Sherlock’s muffled shouting.

“He sounded so… soft.” She said. I quickly grabbed her earpiece and stepped on it with a crunch. In that last twenty seconds, when I looked up onto the floor where Samuel was on, I saw him looking down at us from the window. I knew he came prepared for this, but I wasn’t. We both knew there was no way for us to save all three of us.

We knew that was the last fifteen seconds we have as friends.

Strapping Anthea’s mother and myself in, I stepped on the gas as hard as I could. This was not how I wanted to test the throttle on my new Jaguar. 

The building was now empty, except for Samuel.

That last five seconds was not enough for me get far enough. I felt that explosion shake the ground underneath, and it shattered straight through my heart.

That could have been me. He should have been able to get out of there without a single scratch. With all the brain power combined between Mister Holmes, Q and Anthea, they couldn’t figure out a plan to do just that?

Or was it that this was their plan all along? I scared myself shitless with that thought. Are we all chess pieces for the three of them? We knew at some point we would be in a disposable position, but that was never the first choice, was it?

As I sped down the streets of London, I knew I should stop thinking that way. We have pledged our lives to the service. We’ve lost our rights to our own lives the second we were recruited.

 

Gas explosion was the official report. Of course Q-Branch was all over it. We had to declare Samuel as killed-in-action although his body was never found. I wasn’t surprised at that. He was standing right next to almost a kilogram of C4. His body would have been shattered into dust.  _ (A/N: I have no idea how powerful C4 explosives are, and I thought twice about doing research on it, just in case my government thinks I’m a terrorist…) _

Twelve dead. The same number of kidnappers and snipers we found working for Moriarty.

**We are towards the end. Stay strong. -M**

It was unlike M to send us messages that aren’t instructions. Perhaps it was a message for himself as well… Actually, it was an instruction, to brace ourselves for the end game. And it became clear to me that it was when we heard the call of two pips.

A child.

 

Surprisingly, no one knew who that child was. We assumed it had to be someone close to us. I was camping in the storage facility where the painting was right outside the door. The boy was counting down. Sherlock had less than six seconds to make a deduction, accurately too.

“The Van Buren Supernova!” Sherlock shouted, and the countdown stopped. As DI Lestrade moved out to find the kid, Q’s already had someone right outside on standby to pick him up. The child, was returned to his father, personally by M, way before New Scotland Yard got close enough to pick up radio signals. It was still a mystery to us who it was until much, much later.

 

We were all huddled in M’s office that night, going through the plans once again. Everything went according to it. And there we all were, exhausted, letting go a breath we all were holding, waiting for the last piece to be moved.

“He’s done it. Your idiot of a brother has really done it.” Q said in a really high pitch after refreshing the same website for the last two hours.

On his laptop screen, there was a post on Sherlock’s website - The Science of Deduction.

**Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect.** **  
** **The Pool. Midnight.**

“I think he knew we were involved, somehow. How the hell does he know that was the last pip?” Q continued to rant.

“He must have waited for John to leave.” Anthea chipped in.

“That was what Moriarty was waiting for too…” M said when he spun his monitor around, showing John bound on his wrists and ankles, knocked out cold, getting thrown into the back of an unmarked SUV.

“Get your arses to the pool, now!” Anthea ordered, and we were all scrambling to get into position.


	23. Bait & Switch

**### ### Author’s POV ### ###**

Sherlock was pretending to watch the Jerry Springer show when John announced that he needed a walk.

“I’m going out. Tea won’t make itself!” John grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

He needed John to stay out a little longer than twenty minutes. “We need milk, John.” _Shopping will keep him occupied for a little longer_ , Sherlock thought.

“Really?” John couldn’t believe it. Just when he thought their relationship had moved from Consulting Detective/Blogger to partners...

“Really.” Sherlock responded without looking away from the telly.

“Maybe some lube, condoms? Anything that fancies you, your highness?” John asked sarcastically, just to see if Sherlock was serious about the milk.

“Mmm…”

“Nope, not serious about the milk then.” John said to himself while trotting down the stairs.

While John was busy getting kidnapped and strapped on with explosives, Sherlock was busy writing his opening speech in his mind palace. He knew he was finally going to meet this Moriarty character, his new found nemesis, and the excitement completely drowned him out of thoughts about John. He should’ve been concerned when John didn’t return after two hours…

 

And then it was midnight. Sherlock showed up at the pool. It was quiet. He held up the memory stick and recited the little speech he prepared earlier, “Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me dance... all to distract me from this.”

John was listening to Sherlock’s little speech. _Oh, too ‘busy’ to find the plans huh? What a fucking drama queen…_ he thought to himself. Then a voice in his ear interrupted his thoughts.

_“Out you go now, Johnny boy.”_ The man said. _“Follow what I say, word for word.”_ The voice said when John was out by the pool, facing Sherlock. He saw his lover’s face fall, from shock, to despair, to anger, and confusion, all within a few seconds.

_“Evening. This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”_ John repeated after the man’s voice in his ear.

“John… what the hell?” Sherlock whispered in disbelieve.

_“Bet you never saw this coming.”_ John repeated.

At last Sherlock moved towards the man he fell in love with in that short period that they’ve known each other. When Sherlock got close enough to John, the doctor took his hands out of his pockets and pulled open his jacket to reveal the bomb strapped to his chest.

Somewhere from the rooftop, a sniper’s laser appeared over the bomb.

_“What… would you like me… to make him say… next?”_

Sherlock knew he had to stay calm. He scanned around the pool to find who else is there. Andrew West, the plans, how insistent Mycroft was… he knew it was not a coincidence.

_“Gottle o’geer, gottle o’geer, gottle o’geer…”_ John’s voice was breaking at the end. He was very close to another episode of PTSD triggered attack, just like the one he had when they caught Black Lotus.

_“I love you.”_ The voice said in John’s ear, but John didn’t repeat it. _“Tell him you love him before I break the both of you, Johnny boy!”_

John opened his mouth, he tried to say it but it was not the time nor place. He didn’t want the first time to be like this. The last time they had this conversation was right after John was kidnapped, when they first got together. Whilst he did say those words, but it was in a different context. He wanted to whisper those words into Sherlock’s ear in bed, perhaps one morning after breakfast in bed, or late at night after a fantastic post-case sex, or even in front of the fireplace in each other’s arms.

But definitely not like this. Absolutely not under duress.

And luckily, Sherlock stopped it from happening. “Stop it.”

_“Nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him... I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.”_ John repeated.

“Who are you?”

“I gave you my number.” A voice from the far end of the pool was heard. “I thought you might call.”

 

**### ### Bryn’s POV ### ###**

We knew Moriarty was going to be at the pool. He never planned a scene without rehearsals. If Sherlock were to be there at midnight, we needed to act fast, catch Moriarty and get him to Mister Kaplan before John or Sherlock arrives. Anthea and I stalked the pool area an hour before Sherlock was due to arrive at midnight, while the rest of the team tracked down John. Just as we heard that John is properly tracked, Moriarty opened the door where we were, standing right before our eyes.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s here? M’s top dogs! Here to catch me?” He said really arrogantly. I was so tempted to pounce and take him down there and then, but we have a bigger fish to fry.

Mister Kaplan walked out of the door behind Moriarty, and obviously ambushed him from the look of pure terror on his face. One prick of the needle and we had Moriarty slumping down like a strand of cooked spaghetti.

“If we can fool Sherlock with this one, my life would be complete.” Q commented when Moriarty’s double was revealed.

“Damn. They look… the same?” I was surprised to see another man who behaved, talked and even walked like Moriarty.

“Down to the voice, B, down to the itsy-bitsy details. They’re both mine, afterall.” Mister Kaplan chuckled.

“Be careful… that bomb’s still real.” Q said when he handed me the sniper rifle. Our team had took out Moriarty’s original men and replaced them with… us.

Then we were just watching pieces unfold. The real Moriarty is on his way to be dealt with, and the double seemed to be trained extremely well. The double and Sherlock had a little squabble, picked up a phone call furiously, and left from the back door, distracted.

“Ugh, such drama queens. No wonder Moriarty was so into Sherlock.” Q was running a live commentary on their entire conversation.

Just as I was about to respond, there was a loud beep, and Mr. Kaplan’s voice came through.

_“Get back in there.”_

_“What’s that call about my son?!”_ The double sounded a little panicked. _“I swear to god I will skin that fucker alive, brother or not! And you kept it from me?!”_ We heard him take a deep breath and few seconds later he was back in my line of sight.

That was when I realized that the child was the double’s. Brother. He was James Moriarty’s brother. They were very likely twins. And using your own nephew as a chess piece, he must have knew they were here, and yet he walked straight into this…

Something is off.

 

Another round of words thrown back and forth, Mister Kaplan gave the signal that it was enough and they need to leave.

As the double turned around and walked out, Sherlock didn’t move for a few seconds, gun still trained at the door where _Moriarty_ had left, until he gaze drifted towards John. In an instant, he bent over, putting the gun on the floor and dropped to his knees in front of John.

“All right?” Sherlock asked while releasing the bomb vest on John. “Are you all right?” He asked again when John started breathing irregularly.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I’m fine. Sherlock!” John collapsed as his knees gave up, Sherlock tossing the vest to the side, hoping that the short distance would lessen the impact.

They both exchanged a few glances, Sherlock paced the floor a little and both yammering nonsense telling each other they’re fine when they were obviously not.

“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.” John said.

I chuckled to myself when Q commented, “they already ripped each other’s clothes off. What’s new?”

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had the same answer. “We already do. And people do little else.” From my rifle scope, I saw Sherlock kneeling in front of John and gave his doctor a really passionate kiss. If it wasn’t for the intense situation, I would have made a remark.

But none of us had a chance.

The LED lights on the vest started to blink faster, and there was an audible beep heard. That was the plan all along. Moriarty wanted everyone here, including his own brother, and get rid of all of us once and for all.

“Shit. It’s remotely activated. Duck!” Q yelled.

The last thing I saw was John and Sherlock jumping into the pool before I was thrown off the roof by the explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, no one knows who the hell James Moriarty is, so I gave him a family and a purpose... but not for long!
> 
> Mister Kaplan's character was taken from a Netflix series called Blacklist. She's this little old lady with a skill that helps people disappear. Basically Mycroft in an old woman's body working on the other side of law & order.


	24. First Name Basis

**### ### Bryn’s POV ### ###**

Falling off the roof was the only thing I remember. It was comfortable where I am. I tried to peel my eyes open but only barely managing a slit. All I saw was the shadow of a person sitting facing me at the foot of my bed. I knew I was in the hospital. I tried to look around, but moving my eyeballs was exhausting. I gave up, succumbing to whatever that was coursing through my veins and slept.

The next time that happened, I actually saw who it was. Anthea was sitting in the exact same spot, texting non-stop for the whole six seconds (I think) I managed to keep my eyelids open slightly. I thought I was just blinking, but when I opened my eyes, she was wearing different clothes. I don’t know how long I’ve been in and out of sleep, but apparently long enough to feel like absolute shit.

That exact same thing happened four more times. The fifth time that happened, I struggled, but then managed to twitch a finger. It was exhausting. Again, I thought all I did was blink, but someone peeled my eyelids open and flashed a torch on it. While they did that I could sense a flurry of action around me. There were more than one person in the room.

Then I heard it.

“Hey, you’re back.”

Anthea. She’s here. What happened? I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t even turn my head towards her. All I could manage was roll my eyeballs to look at her. As if she knew, Anthea sat down beside my bed and told me what happened.

“The explosion at the pool blew the building into rubble. You got lucky caught between two large blocks but something hit your head on the way down. I was at the next building and got away with a few scratches and dislocated my knee. Everyone else is fine, except Doctor Watson. He’s in as bad a shape as you are.”

And then I couldn’t stay awake any longer. It was tiring, trying to input information into my head. All I wanted was to sleep.

The next time I woke up was because of a sharp pain on my lower back. Gosh, it really hurts. Then my head started throbbing, and I could think clearer than before. Anthea was still there, except this time she’s sitting on my bed while Mister Holmes sat on the chair.

“How are you feeling?” Anthea asked when she heard me grunt.

I did that subconsciously. But everything hurts. I guessed that they were weaning me off morphine.

“Yes they are. You should start to ache all over.” Mister Holmes said and Anthea reached over my head to press the red button.

Nurses and doctors poured in, touching me all over, fiddling with the machines attached to me. I started to feel better by the minute, my mind clearer by the second.

“How long have I been out?” I asked, and my throat hurts. A nurse held up cup of iced water with a straw lifted to my lips, and I took small sips. It wasn’t my first long-term-hospital-stay stint. I knew all too well what not to do.

“Six weeks. Just last night your finger twitched and you had a seizure. But they got you back.”

I swear I saw tears threatening to fall from Anthea’s eyes.

“I saw you, six times before last night. I remember twitching my finger, but not the seizure. Is that why my whole body aches?”

Anthea smiled, and Mister Holmes… chuckled?

“Good to have you back, agent. Anthea will sort out the rest of your recovery here.” Mister Holmes said stoically, then stood up to leave.

When Anthea and I were alone, she told me Samuel’s funeral was the next day. I had to be there. Guilt was eating me up inside.

“You shouldn’t even leave the bed, but I can understand. I’ll sort out the logistics.” She began furiously typing on her phone, then switched it to silent and sat on the edge of my bed.

I lifted my hand and held hers, wondering if I had read this all wrong. Anthea, for all the years I’ve known her anonymously and in person, was one of the best. She was tough, no doubt, but deep inside she’s also a kind and generous-hearted woman.

She didn’t remove her hand, instead she flipped it over and held mine, weaving our fingers together.

“Anthea. When I’m better, let me take you out for dinner.”

She nodded, tears falling freely down her cheeks. “I thought I’ve lost you for good this time.”

“This time?” I asked.

“I’ve been watching you. I thought you were dead in Jordan, China, and Australia. There’s only so many times a woman can watch someone die before…” She seemed to be lost for words, so I finished it for her.

“Reveal yourself and force your boss to rehire me?” I thought that was funny, until she frowned and shied away. I looked away from her and continued, “I knew I wasn’t fit for the job again. Never expected to get another offer. Now I know it was you that gave me the job driving a cab.”

“That was the only position you were qualified for. But… yes. Mister Holmes wasn’t too pleased, but I think he knew all along. Your file had always been the thickest and most comprehensive on my desk.”

“Thank you, Anthea. You’ve saved me, you know? By giving me that job…” I was interrupted by my own yawn, three in a row, then tried to stifle the fourth but to no avail.

She released my hand and readjusted my pillow under my head, and told me to get some rest. I fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow, but I still felt her kissing my forehead.

“See you tomorrow, Bryn.”

_ See you tomorrow, Aurelia. _


End file.
